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" Loafin* around from place t' place 
'Long the crick or the gris'-mill race. 



Your rolks and 
Mine 



John D-; Wells 

TXumor of 
Swazv rolks," "Old Good-bv's and Howdv-do's' 



Wim Drawings bv 

Emil StruD 



Published bv 

Otto Ulbrich Co. 
Buffalo, N. Y. 

1913 



T6 a^t-s" 



(7[ \ 



Copyright, 1913 

BY 

OTTO ULBRICH CO. 



OTTO ULBRICH CO., BUFFALO. N, Y, 






XLO 

MY FATHER 

with whom i shared the intimate acquaintance of 

" Your Folks and Mine " 

This Book of Verse 

IS 

Dedicated 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



the homecomers . 
elisher's smile . 

ROSES 

ON THE OLD TOWN PLAYGROUND 

THE FAMBLY 

A STRANGER RETURNED . 

LAUGHTER ABROAD 

WHEN THE SHUTTERS ARE DRAWN 

A MORAL ISSUE 

LIKE MAIRY DOES . 

BONESET TEA 

A feller's hand and smile . 

WHEN LIDY DIED . 
OL' JOHN RAUB OF DALLAS VALLEY 
BACK THROUGH OLD PATHWAYS 
BOB WHITE & CO . 



I 

3 

5 

6 

8 

II 

13 

15 

17 

20 
22 

25 
27 
29 

32 
34 



VI 



Contents 



SPEAKIN* TO AN OLD SWEETHEART 

A FARM child's FANCY . 

ol' war WIDDERS . 

the way our childhood went 

fiddlin' trouble away 

when the guido chorus sings 

partiality .... 

CHRISTMAS TIMES PASSED AND GONE 

A GOOD SORT O' MAN t' KNOW 

AN OLD FRIEND 

GRAN 'pap's DIVERSION . 

a day with the youngsters 
the first love . 
the vanishing troops . 
gran'dad's day . 
a mellow old voice 
thanksgiving day in the boarding 
homesickness 
the village tinker 



HOUSE 



Contents 



Vll 



EVERYONE — BUT MOTHER 
THE KNACK OF RHYME . 
A COUNTRY-SIDE LOVER's CONFESSION 

findin' fault 
practical piety . 
in praise of uncles 

LITTLE "miss p'TEND" 

the first sorrow 
"silent joe" 
jealousy 

ANGELINY KERR . 

THE OLD ROSE DRESS 

MY SHADDER AND ME 

AMBITIONS . 

THE MISER . 

BEN TARR ON " BEARIN ' THE CROSS 

A PICTURE IN THE WORTER 

THE TREASURE CHESTS . 

RIGHT HERE t' HOME 



Vlll 



Contents 



THE PASSING OF THE CHILDREN 

THE FISHING TRIP 

AS STRANGE AS IT MAY SEEM . 

TO A STRANGER .... 

THE STAGE THAT RUNS OVER TO PIKE 

THE MERRY-GO-ROUND . 

NO WELCOME .... 

THE WAY THE HIRED-MAN DIED 

HE USED TO BE A JOURNALIST HIMSELF 

OLD SWAN STREET 

THE STOREKEEPER SAYS : 

A PLEA IN THE NIGHT 

IN THE PLAY CORNER 

A WONDER JOURNEY 

CHRONICLES OF THE YOUNGEST 

"out to old aunt mary's" (james WHITCOMB 
riley's birthday) . 

WES' HIGGINS' ANALOGY 
A HOUND-DA WG 



Contents 



IX 



THE MASQUERADER 


. 144 


THE CRICKET . . . . . 


. 146 


RANDOM THOUGHTS ON OCTOBER 


. 148 


THE FAMILY CIRCLE 


. 149 


THE SIMPLE SONG ... * 


. 150 


A man's way .... 


. 152 


THE EGOTIST .... 


. 154 


A MAN OF NOTE .... 


. 156 


THE DEATH OF THE NE'ER-DO-WELL . 


. 157 


A soldier's grave 


. 159 



i i 



Your Folks and Mine" 



THE HOMECOMERS. 

GOSSIP? Yes, if you call it that, 
Settin' here where we gethered at 
Years ago — ^t' recall again 
Folks an' things as we knowed 'em then ; 
Spots an' faces that like as not, 
One or other — or both — f ergot ! 
Loafin' around from place t' place, 
' Long the crick or the gris'-mill race — 
Paths, no odds where they twist an' bend, 
Lead us away to some old-time friend. 

What 's the difference? an' who be you 
Anyway, askin' our right t' do 
Just as we please, or t' talk about 
Anyone here worth the lay in' out ? 
Folks our memory records show — 
Harelipped folks that we used t' know, 
People, mebbe, with asthmay, itch, 
Fambly troubles an' wens an' sich! 
Why, t' talk of 'em seems t' me 
Is ours by right of priority I 



TKe Homecomers 

Who be you t' deny our right 
Gassin' wherever our fancies light? 
Talkin' of folks that we used t' know 
Hereabouts in the Long Ago? — 
Where they drifted an' what befell, 
Wonderin' too if they 're doin' well, 
Who they marrit an' where they be ! — 
Goin' backwards in memory, 
Stoppin' wherever our Fancy strikes! 
Gossip? Yes — that a feller likes I 



ELISHER'S SMILE. 

ELISHER— he 's our hired man — 
Allows there ain't no better plan 
Of circumventin' woes an' cares. 
Than smilin' when y' come downstairs 
An' lives up to it, square an' blunt, 
Like general run of preachers won '/ / 

Elisher smiles an' before you know 
The rest of us is smilin', so 
Ketchin' -like it is\ My law. 
It flits from him to me an' ma, 
An' then across to Uncle Dri, 
Or Mairy Ellen mebbe ; why, 
I 've even seen it set the pup 
A-waggin' 'fore the sun was up! 
Then bimeby, as like as not. 
Some man will pass that 's mebbe got 
A mortgage that his crops can't fetch, 
But like enough the man will ketch 
Elisher's smile an' drop his frown 
An' tote the smile away to town. 
An' peddle it, where, bein' wuss, 
The people need it more than us ! 
The feller at the gris'-mill gits 
The speerit of the smile — it flits 
3 



ElisHer's Smile 

Across an' through the blacksmith's door, 

An* breezes through the general store, 

Then out ag'in, an' wreathes, doggone, 

Whatever face it fastens on! — 

Because Elisher's smile is jis' 

As ketchin ' as the pink-eye is ! 

An' then the feller brings it back 

At night along the back'urds track, 

An' scatters it on either side 

The County Road, both far an' wide. 

Until by time when we get in 

From work, the smile is back ag'in! 

Back home ag'in! — an* seems t' bless 

Elisher for his cheerfulness ; 

"Because you smiled," it seems to say, 

"The world has had a holiday!" 



ROSES. 

ROSES, roses, old-fashioned roses, 
The soft-tinted kind an' the yeller — 
The kind that reach up from the dew-beds an' noses 

The hate from the heart of a feller; 
I 'm speaking especial of home-lovin' roses — • 
There 's none of the kind we call houghten 
Compares with the old-fangled, gold-spangled posies 
That breathe of old loves we 've forgotten. 

Roses, roses, somethin' about you, 

Your smiles or the blossoms you sling us. 
Why summer could never be summer without you. 

And the color an' perfume you bring us; 
The path that leads home seems t' kitter an' wander 

Through mem'ry — ^we never could find it, 
Except for the scent of the bloom that leads yonder. 

An' your loose-lyin' petals that lined it. 

Roses, roses, old-fashioned flowers — 

You ain't so stuck up nor so tony, 
But you sweeten the lives an' you sweeten the hours 

Of old-fashioned fellers that 's lonely; 
If a man 's got an eye an' a man 's got a smeller 

To use — ^if there 's anything noses 
Most everything bad from the heart of that feller, 

It 's roses — them old-fashioned roses! 

5 



ON THE OLD TOWN PLAYGROUND. 

WHEN the old boys meet the new boys where 
the old boys used to play, 
There 's a banishing of sorrows that have marked the 

tortuous way — 
There 's a waning of ambitions that have lured a 

wand'reron, 
And a happy-sad returning to the days we feared were 

gone! 
There 's a twisting of the wrinkles into happy Boyhood 

smiles 
Such as wreathe remembered faces peering down from 

Otherwhiles — 
There 's the wizardry of Mem 'ry that the feelings 

must obey, 
When the old boys meet the new boys where the old 

boys used to play. 



When the old boys meet the new boys on the tiny 

village square, 
There 's a hand, denied to mortals, seems to marshal 

mem'ries there. 
And, as though the chums of Boyhood had n't really 

grown to men. 
Is the cherished playground peopled by forgotten 

friends again ! 

6 



On tKe Old To'wn Playgroxind 7 

In the smile of this or that one lives a chum we used 

to know, 
In the laughter of another rings a lilt of Long Ago ! 
It 's a finer, better pleasure and a sweeter, sadder day, 
When the old boys meet the new boys where the old 

boys used to play ! 

When the old boys meet the new boys! Ah, but 

children cannot know 
'Til they watch their sands and prattle of the dreams 

of Long Ago ! 
They can never see the shadows of the children gone 

from there 
That return and romp beside them through the little 

village square ! — 
They can scarcely sense our feelings, nor can under- 
stand the spell 
That their presence weaves around us as we watch 

them play, nor tell 
Why our bearded chins may quiver as we sigh and 

turn away. 
When the old boys meet the new boys where the old 

boys used to play! 



THE FAMBLY 



HEN winter's at, an' nights are dark an six 
o'clock is eight, 



w 

An' mother 's cleared the table off, we gether 'round 

the grate 
An' pa will say: " Did y' ever read that Riley rhyme 

about 
'The Early Days'?" an' ma says: "No; I'll get the 

volume out;" 
An' then pa reads that homely rhyme about ol'- 

fashioned years; 
The puncheon floors an' open doors of them ol' 

pioneers ; 
An' when he reads of them that 's gone "An' sleep 

on Bethel Hill" 
The shadows seem to deepen an' the settin' room 

grows still — 
Ma takes his hand an' bows her head an 'fore the 

poem 's through 
Sis '11 cry, 

An' mother cries. 

An' pa, he sniffles too ! 

"An' here's another," pa '11 say, "entitled 'Specially 

Jim'; 
I like it 'cause my brother Tom was mighty lots like 

him; 

8 



TKe Fambly 9 

A reckless feller, people thought, but they misunder- 
stood, 

For them that knowed him better knowed he 's 
nothin' else but good." 

An' then he reads that tender rhyme about a father's 
love — 

The kind o' love that lots o' folks jist can't make 
nothin ' of ! — 

An' reads of how the boy went out the time the army 
was, 

An' never worried folks ag'in, or bothered 'em be- 
cause 

They laid him in a hero's grave beneath the sod an' 
dew, 
An Sis '1 cry, 
An' mother cries, 

An pa, he sniffles too ! 

An' then he takes an reads the ones that 's fav-o- 
rites o' mine — 

The one about the little boy with "curv'ture of the 
spine," 

An' t' other one on Tiny Tim, the crippled boy, who 
done 

The world a heap o ' good with his ' ' God bless us ever ' 
one". 

An' so we go, a-follerin' them tender lines o' his 

That picture sorrow, woe or tears percisely as it is — 

That give the poet's touch t' things that 's common- 
place an' poor. 

An' fill your eyes with tears an' smiles an' make y' 
long for more — 



10 TKe Fambly 

The lines that picture homeliness so honest an' so 
true — 
That Sis '11 cry, 
An' mother crys, 

An' pa, he sniffles too! 

"An' just t' think," pa tells us then, "the man that 
wrote them rhymes, 

That 's cheered the hearts of saddened folks a hundred 
thousand times. 

Is layin' sick an' now he needs the very thing that he 

Has alius peddled, free-for-all, t' folks like you an' 
me!" 

He shets the book an' thinks a while, then father bows 
his head. 

The fambly gethers closer whilst the evenin' prayers 
are said: 

" God bless us all an' strengthen us, but more especi- 
ally, Jim, 

Do all You kin for needy folks, but do the most for 



Persarve his hand t' pen the things that 's simple 
sweet an' true." 
An' Sis '11 cry, 
An' mother cries. 

An' pa, he sniffles too! 



A STRANGER RETURNED. 

WHY Mother-0 '-Mine, and don't you know 
The summer days of the Long Ago? — 
The soft south-wind and the sweet perfume 
Of the smiling fields and the orchard bloom? — • 
When the orioles " swung-high-swung-low " 
In the maple trees, in the Long Ago? 

Why, you remember that little boy! — 
He used to come with a broken toy 
Or little hurt, and you used to play 
At kissing the tears and the hurt away, 
And caught him up, in your mother joy, 
And sang to him of the gypsy boy. 

You must recall ! Why he used to stand 

By your chair arm here in the old dream land, 

Or nestle close, and he 'd promise true 

To never go from the side of you ; 

Why, once you cried on his shoulder and 

He never, never could understand? 

He went with you to the chest that day 
You put his top and his ball away. 
And wound his spool with the pretty string 
And locked it safe like a treasured thing ; 
He marveled much at the saddened way 
You held him close in your arms that day. 
II 



12 A Stranger Ret\irned 

The boy of old has returned to you ! 

The soft south- wind and the blossoms, too, 

The orioles and the flowered ways, 

And these are the same old happy days — 

He 's kept his love and his promise true. 

And all these years he has walked with you. 



LAUGHTER ABROAD. 

LAUGHTER lives a roving life, 
Shunning ways of tears and strife 
Turning from the paths that be 
Dark and dank and shadowy, 
Into ways where, at his will, 
Sunlight grows more golden still ; 
Watch him as he comes — in style 
Like a vagrant — whilst his smile 
Leaves its echo rippling after — 
That 's Laughter! 

Watch him in the crowded square, 
Scanning all the faces there — 
Brushing from this face a tear. 
Banishing a wrinkle here — 
Practising his wizardry 
* Til the dullest eye can see 
Nearly all the mouths in town 
Fashion up instead of down ! 
Ah, he is a cunning crafter, 
Is Laughter! 

Watch him as he goes his way! 
Having set the world at play — • 
Sparing cheer and smiles on none. 
Laughter has dethroned his own! 
13 



14 La\jgKter Abroad 

None is left who jests and chaffs 
Laughter until Laughter laughs ; 
Though he pleased a world till it 
Held its sides at Laughter's wit, 
There is none so mirthless after, 
As Laughter! 



WHEN THE SHUTTERS ARE DRAWN. 

THE shutters is drawn at the Samuelses ' place, 
An' people that passes it by, 
Jist ponder an' think, with a sorrowful face. 

An' smother a tear in their eye; 
The naybors come in with their offerin's of love, 

An' tidy the livin' rooms, too. 
Or set in the kitchen a-whisperin' of 
"Now what '11 the little ones do?" 

The hired man putters a-doing the chores, 

Whilst tears keep him nearly unmanned, 
He fixes the winders an ' tinkers the doors, 

For Wednesday draws closer to hand ; 
He thinks of her goodness, her motherly ways, 

The sickness she guided him through. 
Of all that she missed in her life, an' he says: 

"Now what '11 the little ones do?" 

The naybors come in in their nayborly way — 

The naybors who knew her in life, 
Who know how she struggled an' slaved night an 
day 

To live to the name of a wife ; 
They know all the heft of the burden she bore 

An' how little of pleasure she knew. 
An' tearfully ask, as they 're closin' the door: 

' ' Now what '11 the little ones do ? " 
15 



1 6 WKen tKe SKxitters are Dra-wn 

An' up in the room where the shutters is drawn, 

With his tears rainin' bitter an' hot, 
The visions of chances that 's wasted an' gone 

Come back to the man who forgot ; 
The dreams of green fields an' of pleastires that 's 
past — 

The joys that he owed to her, too ! 
For there sets the man who neglected to ast : 

"Then what would the little ones do?" 



A MORAL ISSUE. 

THE idee was Mirandy's; she allowed we 'd orter 
go 
An* pack our duds an' go t' town t' see the chicken 

show; 
An' so we went an tuk it in, but bein' that we 're 

jest 
or fashioned folks who still believe ol' fashioned ways 

are best, 
I s'pose that we was prejudiced an' mebbe sot ag'in 
New-fangled ways that smarter folks see lots o' virtue 

in — 
Perhaps that 's it — but, anyway, we both rise up t' 

state 
There 's been too much shinnanigin on Nature's plans 

of late! 

We wandered 'mongst the fancy coops of chickens — 

there was some 
So proud an' highfalutin' that we dassen't speak to 

*em. 
Whilst others looked so foreign-like an' had such 

foreign gaits 
'Twas plain they couldn't understand nor talk 

United States, 
There 's Andalusians, Cochins, too, an' them Rhode 

Island Reds, 

3 17 



1 8 A Moral Issue 

An* other kinds wore pantalets an' shawls around 

their heads, 
An' other freaks, 'til mother says, "I swan, I 'd like 

t' see 
A plain ol' fashioned chicken, 'cause I 'm homesick," 

she-says-she. 

But nary a good ol' fashioned hen or rooster could be 

found — 
Jest ultra-hens with pedygrees, that strutted all 

around 
With heads helt up an' cacklin' 'til they purty nigh 

was hoarse, 
Like women, home from Reno, with a new fresh-laid 

divorce ! 
There wa *n 't no old familiar sight of mother hen an ' 

brood — 
There wa 'n 't a sign of henyard life nor chicken mother- 
hood; 
Mirandy up an' told the man — the boss of all the 

pens — 
That we was ''strangers in the place; where was the 

settin' hens?" 

I thought I saw the feller smile, but he-says-he " Come 

on. 
An' led us 'round amongst the coops an' pens until 

blame-don 
He found a durned contraption — we could hear the 

chickens "tweet" 
An' lots of folks was standin' 'round discussing 

Farenheat ; 



A Moral Issue 19 

I thought the feller smiled ag'in an' about the time he 

did 
He reached across the railin' there an' lifted up the 

lid!— 
An' drat my pelt if ever I expected such a sight — 
They 's hatchin' chickens right an' left by dumed 

electric light ! 

Mirandy sort o' squared herself, her motherhood up- 
set; 

' ' My law ! ' ' says she * ' have all the hens on airth turned 
Suffragette? — 

An' ain't there no more motherin' like Nature meant 
for? — Come 

Away from this immoral place — the place for us is 
home!" 



An' home we went, where Virtue rules an' never 

gees nor haws — 
Where all the chickens on the place know all their 

pas and mas — • 
Where moral law is uppermost, an' mother she in- 

ten's 
A special prize of extry com for all her settin' hens. 



LIKE MAIRY DOES. 

I WONDER if all wimin do 
Like Mairy does, an' jaw an' jaw 
The youngun's all the hull day through 

An' half the night untwell, my law, 
The childurn do same thing ag'in, 

An' git idee, like childurn will, 
The only times she's punishin' 

In earnest 's when she 's keepin' still I 

She scolds 'em all for this an' that, 

For trompin' down the flower plot, 
For goin' out without a hat 

Or wear in' one, as like as not! — 
For climbin' trees or tryin' t' fight, 

Or chasin' chickens 'round about — 
She fidgets when they 're in her sight 

An' twict as nervous when they 're out. 

She can't abide a quiet child 

No more 'n me, an' yit she will 
Jist comb 'em down for runnin' wild 

As often as for keepin' still ; 
I 've seen her scold an' tan their pelts 

For simplest didoes ever told — 
An' then when there ain't nothin' else 

She '11 scold because she has t' scold! 

20 



l^iKe Mairy Does 21 

An* yit, when they 're asleep in bed 

An' Mairy goes an' holds a hand, 
Or kisses 'em or strokes a head, 

I ' ve wished that they could understand ; 
I 've wished that they could feel her lay 

Against their cheeks, all jam an' smutch. 
An' feel her tears an' hear her say : 

"I somet'mes think I scold too much!" 



BONESET TEA. 

SINCE Fortune smiled upon me in her pleasin' 
sort o' way 
An' I have been a-Hvin' Hke a millionaire au fait — 

Parlezvoo Frangais? — • 
I Ve done a heap of thinkin' an' I think that first an* 

last 
I 'm thinkin' less of nowadays than of the days that 's 

passed ! 
I shut my eyes to mammon an' its likes, an' jist 

recall 
The country institutions, the familiar spots an' all; 
An' 'long the last of Aprile, or in May, it seems t' me 
I alius think of mother an' 
Her 

Boneset 
Tea. 

In riches there is sumthin* gives your taste newfangled 

kinks 
An' sets a feller longin' for more soothin' kinds o' 

drinks — 

Nerves, some doctors thinks; 
There *s fizzes an* there's rickeys an' there's Frenchy- 

fied frapp^, 
All cinnamoned an' nutmegged in a dozen different 

ways, 

22 



Boneset Tea 23 

An' cordials that they serve y' on a sort o* thimble 

plan 
That would n't make a swaller for a Local Option 

man! 
They 're pizen, but I drink 'em by this simple recipe: 
Jist close your eyes an' down 'em — 
Think of 
Boneset 
Tea! 

Our youthful minds was certain that our systems 

needed it — 
It cured us of somethin' but I ain't discovered yit 

What it aimed t' hit; 
It might o' been for janders or for fever, like enuff, 
That good old-fashioned mothers alius give the bitter 

stuff! 
Whatever 't was it fixed us, for there wa 'n 't a youngun 

known 
But lied himself plum healthy till the boneset tea was 

gone! 
The finest old p 'ventive in the world it seemed t' me 
Wa'n't patent pills, but mothers an' 

Their 

Boneset 
Tea! 

But things are sort o' diffumt now, the years are 

takin' flight, 
With money, gout an' whatnot I have changed an 

awful sight — 

Hair '5 a-gittin white / 



24 Boneset Tea 

I ain't f ergot the boneset, though, an' law! the very 

thought 
Will set me makin* faces at the closest friend I got, 
Then sort o' set me thinkin' of the debt I owe to you — 
Of all the love an' kindness an' the things you used 

t' do, 
An' makes me hope you '11 read between these few 

poor lines from me 
An' know I 'm thinkin' of you an' 

Your 

Boneset 
Teal 



A FELLER'S HAND AND SMILE. 

THERE 'S lots of things in this world of our'n to 
fault an' to make complaint, 
An' more you figger an' wonder why the things ain't 

what they ain '/, 
The more you *11 see that for every woe there 's a 

blessin' for every man, 
An' then give in that the Lord was right when He 

figgered this mortul plan; 
There 's roomatism an' janders, too, an' a slather of 

ills an' aches, 
That 's more'n offset, as the sayin' is, by syrup an' 

buckwheat cakes! 
But best of all the blessin 's here, an' evenin' things a 

pile. 
Is the good warm clasp of a feller's hand an' the wealth 

of a feller's smile. 

When far from home an' your kith an' kin, an' y' 

feel that y' want t' go 
Back home ag'in an' your heart drops down t' 'leven 

or twelve helow — 
When nuthin y' see kin please y' much, an' y' feel 

that you'd trade it ail 
T' be back home on the farm ag'in, a-doin' nuthin' 

a'tall— 

25 



26 A Feller's Hand and Smile 

When music — whether it 's good or not — will grate on 

yer tarnal ear 
Like sawmill rippin* a hick'ry log, an' y' feel that 

you'd ruther hear 
A crow a-singin', O then's the time it '11 bolster y' 

up a pile — 
The good warm clasp of a feller's hand an' the wealth 

of a feller's smile. 

There's some that's rich an' there's some that's pore, 

an' there's some that's jist betwixt, 
An' here ain't neither the time ner place t' speak of 

the toler 'bly fixed ; 
It 's them that 's pore that I 'm thinkin' of, the 

quieter ones that jest 
Go on an' on in their ploddin' way a-doin' their level 

best 
An' stayin' pore, an' a-thankin' God fer all that He 

up an' sends — 
For rain an' crops an' fer things t' eat, for fambly, 

health an' friends — 
The men who thrive on their simple ways, an' cherish 

in hullsome style 
The good warm clasp of a feller 's hand an' the wealth 

of a feller's smile. 



WHEN LIDY DIED. 

I DON 'T care what the weather does as long as it 
does n't rain," 
Lidy 'd say as she lingered through that summer of 
fear an' pain, 

An' sot her eye 
On the smilin' sky 
T' watch the cloud-fleece kitterin' by, 
Or f oiler the glint of a dancin' beam 
That come t' brighten her fevered dream; 
Brighter the sun come shinin' down the faster she 

'pearedt' wane, 
Yit did n't care what the weather done as long as it 
did n't rain 

"I don't care what the weather does as long as it 

does n't rain," 
Whispered that to her mother an' me, O time an' time 
again ! 

A patch of blue 
Where the sun came through. 
Or ennything else appertainin' to 
A perfect day, done more by fur 
Than medicine ever could done for her! 
Soon as ever 'twas light she 'd turn an' look through 

the winder pane — 
**I don't care what the weather does as long as it 
doesn't rain." 

27 



28 WKen Lidy Died 

She did n 't care what the weather done as long as it 

did n 't rain ! 
'Count o' that we could bear the thought she could n 't 

come back again 

The day she died! 
She could n't abide 
The tears in here an' the rain outside; 
'T was sort of a day that the folks who knew her 
Agreed with us that she could n 't endure — 
Rain come down from a heavy sky an' beat like a 

restless tide 
'Gainst the winder of Lidy's room, the day that our 

Lidy died! 

Fall and winter has passed away an' summer is 

drawin' nigh — 
O, but it 's lonesome around the place, with no one 

but ma and I 

A-settin' here 
In our easy cheer, 
Suspectin' each other of hidin' a tear, 
An' thinkin' both, of that dreary day 
The rain beat down in that restless way ! 
Down in our hearts where our sorrow is we feel, as 

the hours wane. 
We don't care what the weather does as long as it 

does n't rain! 



OL' JOHN RAUB OF DALLAS VALLEY. 

OL' John Raub of Dallas Valley — your ol' naybors 
ain 't f ergot 
The cheer that you was famed for, an' they 're 

thinkin', like as not, 
On this blustry winter's evenin', same as I am, how 

you used 
To spread your kindness 'mongst us when we used 

t' come to roost; 
I can see you yet, ol' naybor, an' the twinkle in your 

eyes. 
The gladness of your greetin' an' your gen3rwine 

surprise 
As we crowded 'cross your thresholt, an' you says: 

''Well, I '11 be beat! 
I wish I 'd knowed you 's comin' — we 'd had sumthin' 

good t' eat!" 



Whilst the tunin' fork of Memory is ringin' in my 

ears 
It seems t' vibrate music of the nigh fergotten years — 
I can hear the sleighbells jingle whilst the load of 

Youth's dehght 
Is headin' out f er Raubses through the frosty winter 's 

night; 

29 



30 or John Ra\ib of Dallas Valley 

I can see the shadders fiittin' of your portly wife an' 
you 

Behind the Hnsey curtains, an' I hear your "howdy- 
do!" 

As the door swings open to us, an' I hear your "I '11 
be beat ! 

I wish I 'd knowed you 's comin' — we 'd had sumthin' 
good t' eat!" 

So you wish you 'd knowed we's comin? If I didn't 

know y' John, 
I reckin I 'd be thinkin' your surprise was all put on. 
For 't was sumthin' kin to magic or a slight-o'- 

handed show 
How tables full o' eatables an' good things seemed t' 

grow! — 
There was turkeys, ducks an' chickens, too, all 

garnisheed with sass 
An' jist as many helpin's as a fellow chose t' pass, 
Which the same belied your welcome and your greetin' 

"I '11 be beat! 
I wish I 'd knowed you's comin' — we 'd had sumthin' 

good t' eat!" 

or John Raub of Dallas Valley — O you bet we ain't 

forgot ! 
We knowed y' even better than yourself — as like as 

not. 
An' remember better, prob'ly, 'cause y* see we 've 

moved away 
Where folks like you are scarcer than a "pee- wee" 

Christmas day! — 



or John Ra\ib of Dallas Valley 31 

An' a-lookin' all around us at the avarice an' greed, 
An' folks a-slightin' others who are like enuff in need, 
It 's a pleasure jist a-thinkin* of your hullsome "I '11 

be beat! 
I wish I 'd knowed you 's comin' — we 'd had sum thin' 

good t' eat!" 



BACK THROUGH OLD PATHWAYS. 

YESTERDAY whilst wand'rin' back 
What I call the old " back-track "- 
That is, through the fields an' trees 
That 's been blessed memories 
All these years, I swan, a wee 
Little feller waylaid me — 
Little chap, with hat-brim down 
Over his two eyes o' brown, 
Robber-stylej an' seemed t' say: 
"Both hands up!" jist that away! 
Backed me 'gainst the pasture fence 
An' robbed me of my common-sense ! 

Took my hand, he did, an' led 
Where the pathways chanced to head. 
This way, that, an' over yon 
Where my happiest days have gone ; 
Down the ol' creek banks an' through 
Pools that mirror back at you 
Smiles an' faces you Ve forgot 
Twenty years, an' never thought 
Nothin' of, yet, here they be, 
Fresh as when they stole from me 
Injun-file, so soft an' low 
I did n't scarcely sense 'em go. 
32 




" Backed me 'gainst the pasture fence 
An' robbed me of my common-sense.' 



BacK TKrovig'H Old Pathways 33 

Ranged we did, acrost the old 
Green Chautauqua hills, that hold 
More real love an' sweet surprise 
Than the slopes o' Paradise! 
Whittled alder limbs an' punched 
Pith out of — yes, an' munched 
Sorrel-tops an' split the still 
Hillside silence with the shrill 
Grass blade, like we did long back 
'Fore we sort o' lost the knack! 
Jist cut up, like old fool gents 
That 's been robbed o' common-sense! 

Then, at sundown, home we come 
Steppin' to the partridge drum 
On the ol' log, where I 've hid 
Long before that partridge did ! 
Steppin' light an' high, an' the 
Youngun purt' nigh glad as me, 
Seemed as if, with floppin' brim 
Over the faraway eyes of him ; 
'Crost the brook an' fields, an' then 
In the shades an' home again, 
Stoppin' at the pasture fence 
T' give me back my common-sense! 

3 



BOB WHITE & CO. 

SETTIN' on the fence to-day there 's somethin' 
seemed t' strike 

On my ears so happily an' so farmiliar-like, 

That I turned an' looked around expectin' I would see 

Some ol' friend a-waitin' there t' say "Hullo" t' 
me! 

An' there was an ol' friend there — a friend I rise t' 
say 

As staunch an' true as any friend as ever graced my 
sight, 

Teetered on the fence rail there, in a bran' new cut- 
away, 

Chirrupin' his vis'tin' card "Ol'-Bob-White." 

Cocked his head this way an' that an' sort o' says, 

"Hullo 
What on earth is ailin' you, I 'd be obleeged t* know? 
What are you so solemn for? I '11 warrant you ain 't 

got 
Half the trouble in your craw that I have, like as 

not!" 
That 's the way he rattled on, an' every note he bio wed 
Struck me where my troubles was an' knocked 'em 

left an' right 
Like the dolls on circus day, an' 'fore I rea ly knowed 
Dogged if I wa'n't chirrupin' "Ol'-Bob-White." 

34 



Bob AVHite & Co. 35 

Shamed me with his happy way an' friendly sort o' 

sign, 
'Til I says: "If you 'd as lief, then you 're a friend o' 

mine! 
You 're the kind o' friend I need, a friend t' make me 

smile 
When the world seems turned around an' scarcely 

worth the while." 
Swelled his throat an' stretched his wings with evident 

delight, 
Chirruped twice as loud an' long, an' sweeter than he 

had! 
Then an' there us two agreed, myself an' ol' Bob 

Whit^- 
We 've gone into partnership jist a-bein' glad! 



SPEAKIN' TO AN OLD SWEETHEART. 

IF I could write like poets write — 
Like Field er Whitcomb Riley might, 
I woiild n't waste a jot of time 
A-writin' high-falutin' rhyme! 
I *d sling the sort o' verse that thrills 
About the ol' Chautauquay hills — 
Of drowsy days, an' evenin's too, 
An' bein' home again with you. 

I 'd rhyme a sleepy day in June — 
Perhaps a Sunday afternoon. 
With peace an' sunshine reachin' out 
T' hit the tamal blues a clout ; 
The smell of apple bloom an' peach, 
An' bees that stuttered in their speech 
From swiggin' honey — ^mebbe more 
Than what the gluttons bargained for ! 

I 'd rhyme a road among the hills — 
A ploddin' horse betwixt the thills 
Of some ol' dadbumed jennylin, 
That had a girl an' feller in — 
An' rhyme it plain enuff t' see 
The girl was you an' feller me 
Before our courtin' days was through, 
An' I was there t' home with you. 
36 



SpeaKin' to an Old S-weetHeart 37 

I 'd choose the very finest thing 
A man was ever knowed t' sing 
Of enny county ennywhere 
In all the world, an' I declare 
I 'd 'zaggerate a thousand times, 
An' build the durndest set o' rhymes 
You ever saw — the kind that spills 
Our love f er them Chautauquay hills ! 

An' then I 'd write a rhyme t' fit 
The lonesome spells a feller '11 git 
Whose trade is princip'ly t' roam 
An' alius be away from home — ■ 
Of how his heartstrings sort o' kink 
Whenever he sets down t' think 
Of fields of green an ' skies of blue, 
An' bein' home again with you! 



A FARM CHILD'S FANCY. 

ODOWN in the barn there 's the funniest horse! — 
With wobbly legs an' a little soft nose, 
An' little short tail an' the funniest voice — 
That come in the night — an' how, do y' s'pose? 

Well, little fat feller rode over the hill 
When we-uns all was asleep in the night, 

An' put out his horse an' reckined he "will 

1st play around here 'twell it starts t' git light." 

He 's strange little feller an' laffed all the time. 
An' had a red nose an' was pudgy an* fat 

Like uncles an' circus clowns is, an' instead 
O' hair he had icicles under his hat! 

So he put out his horse an' he laffs an' sez he 
*'I reckin I '11 git me a brush an' some paint 

An' fix up this place 'twell the folks livin' here 

Will wake in the mornin' an' think that they 
ainH!'' 

He climbed up the trees t' the topper-most leaves 
An' painted 'em purple an' silver an' brown, 

An' them 'at he could n 't make purty why he 
1st shook an' shook 'twell he rattled 'em down! 
38 



A. Farm CHild's Fancy 39 

He painted the trees an* he painted the gates, 
An' painted the roof an' the fence an' the stile, 

An' everything else in the kentry, T gess, 
In ever' direction, fer much as a mile! 

He worked so hard he must o' f ergot, 
An 'fore he knowed it the sun up an' shined! 

An' law! but he scurried away an' he left 
His pore little wobbly critter behind ! 



OL' WARWIDDERS. 

NOW Decoration 's come an' gone — 
The or war tunes is still, 
An' flowers all is wiltin' on 

The graves on Soldiers' Hill ; 
or uniforms is put away — 
Our feelin's out of kink — 
An' now it's time, I want t' say, 
T' jist lay back an' think. 

We 've honored them on Soldier's Hill, 

That wore ol' faded blue 
At Fredericksburg an' Chanc'lorsville — 

An' they desarve it, too : 
But ain 't we plum neglected sum 

Who clung t' Glory's hem? — 
The wimin folks that staid t' hum — 

Who 's goin' t' honor them? 

Who 's goin' t' place the bloom above 

The frail forms restin* there, 
Who bore in fortytude an* love 

Full twict a soldier's share? 
Whose part was only jist t' wait 

'Til smoke had cleared away — 
T' stand within the open gate 

An' watch an' wait — an' pray! 
40 



or War Widders 41 

I 'low the buds grow every bit 

For wimin folks like them, 
As what they do for men who fit 

An' guarded Glory's hem! 
It *s time fer us t' understand — 

T' honor grey an' blue, 
An' everyone who took a hand — 

An' oV war widders, too ! 



THE WAY OUR CHILDHOOD WENT. 

THIS-A-WAY an* that-a-way, an' in an out an' 
through, 
Through the gate of momin' an' a lane of dancin' 

dew, 
Through a day of sunshine an' a day of weepin' rain, 
Through a day of pleasure an' another day of pain — 
O'er the fields of Summer, through the valley of Con- 
tent, 
'Cross the fields of Wonder was the way our childhood 
went. 



Don't you mind the faces of the tired little men 

Trampin' on beside us through the orchard-lands of 
Then? 

Don't you mind the maidens with their lips of cherry 
red 

Puckered sweet as blossoms that was bloomin' over- 
head? — 

Mind how Nature's music an' the childrun's voices 
blent 

Whilst we went a singin' down the way our childhood 
went? 

Now the world is changin' an' it seems to me today 
All its golden splendor is a-fadin' plum away! — 

42 



TKe Way 0\ir CHildHood W^ent 43 

An' there 's less of music in this grey old world of 

His— 
What there is is "out of tune" as ol'-time sayin' is: 
Yet we keep on livin' an' contrive to be content, 
Happy — jist a-dreamin' of the way our childhood 

went. 



FIDDLIN' TROUBLE AWAY. 

BILL HUMINGER tells of a feller named Prime 
'At lived at the Corners, or Bellinger's Springs 
As folks calls it now, who spent all his time 
Inventin' a fiddle with twenty-six strings! 
The feller, Bill cakalates, figgered that four 
Wa'n't near enuff strings by a twenty or more, 
An' so he kep' whittlin' an' workin' away 
Until it was finished an' ready one day, 
An' Bill say that ''law 
When he 'd fiddle an* draw, 
'T was about the best fidd'lin' that ever I saw!'* 



But whilst he 'd been workin' an' foolin' his time 
O' course he 'd neglected his farmin' an' sich — 
His fences an' fodder was wuthless, but Prime 

Was feller 'at never would want t' be rich 
So he did n't care, but he 'd whittle an' sing 
An' look fer some place fer t' fasten a string; 
Yit Huminger says 'at there 's sumthin' would strike 
A stranger about him, y' could n't but like — 
"His smiles an' his ways" 
Bill Huminger says 
"An' way he coiild fiddle would lengthened your 
days!*' 

44 



riddlin* Trouble A-way 45 

But consyquence was 'at the dealers in town 

Got kind o' pervoked with the feller, ontwell 
The garnishee man an' the sheriff went down 

T' close on some notes 'at he 'd owed fer a spell; 
They found him a-sawin' an' fiddlin' at 
A sort of a campmeetin' fav-er-ite that 
Got into their heels an' they danced, 'twell they 's 

numb, 
An' dumed if they did n't fer git why they come! — 
"So stories ran" 
Says Huminger, an' 
Says sheriff danced off with the garnishee man ! 



WHEN THE GUIDO CHORUS SINGS. 

I'VE heard the wind sigh softly 'til you 'd almost 
think it grieves, 
I 've heard the patterin' music of the fallin' locust 

leaves, 
I 've sensed the song of Springtime that the apple 

blooms impart, 
I 've felt the hymn of gladness from a feller's happy 

heart, 
I 've listened in the maples to the robins' silver 

chords. 
An' heard the worter ripple over stony country fords; 
But every sort of music that my recollection brings 
Is only jist a patch on 

What the Guido Chorus sings! 

I 've heard the roar of thunder f oiler Summer 's sweet- 
est strain. 

An' heard the thunder give away t' Summer's song 
again — 

An, though I 'm shy on "tempos" an' the "phrasin"' 
an' the ''space," 

*T was like the Guido fellers when the tenors chase the 
bass! 

46 



WKen tHe Guido CKorus Sixi^s 47 

It seems t' me the angels drop the fiddle an' the harp 
For fear o' making discords by a-goin' flat or sharp — 
They shut their noise, I reckon, an' they sort o' fold 

their wings, 
An' listen to their betters 

When the Guido Chorus sings ! 

Now I ain't much on music; why, I don't suppose I 

kin 
Distinguish " obligatters " from the box a fiddle's in. 
But when they crash like thunder — then as soft as 

drippin' dew — • 
I swanny now, that 's music, an' you bet I know it, 

too! 
An' when I die I reckon you kin let the angels go, 
I 'd ruther have my singin' done by fellers that I 

know — 
Jist let 'em lay around a spell an' rest their voice an' 

wings. 
An' let me fly Off Yender 

While the Guido Chorus sings ! 



PARTIALITY. 

PA is good to all of us and buys the mostest things — 
Suckers, gum an' lots of to3^s that I can't think 
to tell, 
Injyrubber dolly too, an' really bird that sings, 
But he shows partiality an' buys the most for Nell, 
An' that 's because 
One time her was 
Awful sick with fever an' her 's ist a-gittin' well. 

Once he buyed a doll for me an' Jim a ''Jungle Book, " 

Sammy got a rockin' horse an' baby got a bell — ■ 

Ist one thing for each of usf — an' then pa went and 

took 
An' he buyed a doll an' book an' bell an' horse for 
Nell!— 

An' pa said "Shoo! 
I 'm s 'prised at you. 
Jealous of your sister, an' her ist a-gittin' well!" 

Guess he thinks he must, because one day he said he 

will. 
Once when her was awful sick an' had her worstest 

spell, 

48 



Partiality 49 

An' our window blinds was shut an' ever 'one was 

still, 
'Nen I peeked an' saw my pa an' heerd him cry an' 
tell 

"It could n't be!— 
No sir-r-e- 
He 'd give ennything if her was ist a-gittin' well!" 

4 



CHRISTMAS TIMES PASSED AND GONE. 

CHRISTMAS in the Long Ago! Ho, my lazy- 
dazy 
Don't the recollections of it fairly drive y' crazy? 
Everyone distracted an' their blood a-runnin' high, 
Brimmin' with the feelin' of a Christmas drawin' 

nigh! 
Greasin' up your Sunday boots an' oilin' of your 

hair, 
Toggin' in your Sunday clothes with more than 
common care, 
Fixin up for Mosher's dance that happened once a 

year, 
Bringin' in the Christmas time on tidal waves o* 
cheer 1 

Crispy nights an' frosty ones, a cutter painted yellow, 
Fashioned plenty small enuff for a gal an' fellow — 
Trustin' to the fambly hawss that seemed t' under- 
stand 
Journeys through the winter nights an' drivin' 

singlehand ; 
Gal an' fellow spoonin' like as not, an' blamy- 

don, 
Nothin' but the blinkin* stars an' moon a-lookin' 
on — 

so 



CKristmas Times Passed and Gone 51 

Nothin' but the stars an' moon t' hear *em promisin' 
T' see the Baptist preacher 'fore it 's Christmas time 
ag'in! 

Fun an' frolic runnin ' loose ! A ban on melancholy ! — 

Law, we did n't used t' have no mistletoe or holly, 

That 's a new ideer an' of doubtful tendencies — 

Then a fellow stole the kiss that rightfully was his, 

Stole the gal, as like as not, an' then went toe-an'- 

heel 
Dancin' down the center in an' ol' Furginny reel, 
Gallivantin' back ag'in an' then reverse, an' law. 
Never gettin' tired whilst the fiddler would saw! 

Dance an extry set or two by the light of mornin', 
Settin' out for home again jist as day was bornin' — 
Figger any way y' want, I guess you alius found 
Quickest way t' git her home was longest way around ! 

Can't y' train your hearin' just t' listen through the 

years 
Till the sound o' sleighbells kind o' jingles in your 

ears? 
Can't y' see the faces of the folks y' used t' know, 
Christmas friends an' sweethearts of the Long Time 

Ago? 



A GOOD SORT O' MAN T' KNOW. 

IRECKIN of all of the folks that I 've knowed 
From Beersheba right down t' Dan, 
The one that I alius have cottoned the most 
Was the commonest sort of a man — 
The commonest sort with a hand hard as horn, 
And a heart in his vest that would swell 
With thankfulness when you would ask how he was : 
"I thanky, I 'm tol'able well." 

You *11 find him, I reckin, wherever y' go, 

Wherever y' happen t' stray — ■ 

Wherever there 's room for the blossoms t' blow 

An' space for his feelin's t' play; 

An' alius, no odds what the weather may be, 

He has the same story t' tell — 

The same hullsome grasp of your hand when he says 

"I thanky, I 'm tol'able well." 

There 's times when I 've knowed that his asthmy 

was worse. 
An' roomatiz bothered him, too — 
When trouble was taggin' unreason 'bly clost 
An' mebbe his interest was due ; 
But law, when you 'd ask him how things got along, 
There was no thin' t' hint it or tell 
That things was n 't right, in the grasp of his hand 
An' his "Thanky, I *m tol'able well." 

52 



A Good Sort o' Man t' Ilno-w 53 

In the cheer of his words an' the warmth of his hand 

There 's sumthin' that alius was meant — 

A sermon, I thought — a sermon that preached 

The gospel of pure content ; 

No blues was so blue nor sorrows so deep 

But somehow he seemed to dispel, 

An' here 's my respecks an' my love to the men 

Who alius are "tol'able well." 



TF I CO 

1 kin 



AN OLD FRIEND, 
could sling our language like what some fellers 



An' sort o' leave my grammer out an' crowd my 
feelin'sin, 

I 've alius thought I 'd like to take a reef an' let 'er 
go 

An' try t* pay y', Andy Bort, the debt I really owe; 

I would n 't want my rhyme t' halt or words t' "inter- 
fere"— 

I 'd want 'em both t' flow as free as your old-fashioned 
cheer 

You used t' spend so 'stravagant, an' more y' seemed 
t' spend 

The more of it y' seemed t' have t' give away an' 
lend! 

I 've alius argyed that a man as easy-goin' 's you 
Was put on this terrestchul ball with speshul work t' 

do, 
The which was, by example, to proclaim it near an' 

far 
That "half the joy in livin' is t' take' things as they 

are ' ' ; 
An' you 're the livin' proof of it! Why your six foot 

an' four 
Casts jes' as long a shadow as it ever did — an' more! 

54 



An Old Friend 55 

Your cheer is jes' as hullsomlike an', if y' care t' 

know, 
Y' haint one minute older than y' was ten years ago! 

Y' alius seemed t' have the knack o' findin' what there 

is 
A-lurkin' in the comers of this hullsome world of 

His— 
The little things that other folks don't understand 

or see 
You used t* know their hidin' place an' point 'em 

out t' me; 
I swan, it alius seemed t' me you somehow understood 
The secrets of the medderland, the vallies an' the 

wood — 
Why, springtime fairly used t' say, as it come buddin' 

in, 
" // Andy Bort is ready then I guess I 'd best begin/'' 

At risk of tellin' secrets, I remember where you kep' 
The vintage that was mighty apt t' git us out o' 

step — 
The vintage that would spur you on till you declaimed 

again 
That pome on "Deacon Watkin's Hawss" an' 

"Sock'ry's Settin' Hen," 
The two that you was partial to an' give us, as a rule. 
At Chestnut Grove Ly-cee-um or the Dewey Districk 

School — 
I swan, we near got pleurisy an' room-a-tism too, 
A-laffin' so when you 'd recite like what you used t' 

do! 



56 An Old Friend 

You wa'n 't too good in wordly ways, jes' good enuff 

f er me — ■ 
As good as what a human man had ever ought t' be — 
But if I had the knack t* write Hke what some fellers 

do, 
I 'd tell 'em what a lot they 've missed by never 

knowin' you; 
I 'd tell *em what a lot they 've passed on this terrest- 

chul sphere 
By knowin' not the depth an' warmth of your old- 
fashioned cheer — 
By never havin' gone away an' then come back, y' 

know, 
An' had you grasp their hand an' say, "Hullo, my 

boy, hullo!" 



GRAN 'PAP'S DIVERSION. 

FOR real content an' happiness 
An' peace that 's genyivine, I jes' 
Commend ol* gran'pap settin* there 
In ol' splint-bottom easy chair 
Afore the fire, jes' about 
The time November 's creepin' out, 
An' actin' like November kin 
A-freezin' everybody in! 

I swan, if I coiild paint, I 'd take 
Some silver grey an' red an' make 
A picture of him settin' there, 
The glow upon his face and hair. 
An' Myry 's childum listenin' 
T' tales o' things he figgered in! 
I *d label it "Contentment," too, 
For, gran'pa, real contentment 's you! 

It alius seems t' weave a spell 
That *s magical an ' kind o' — well 
It 's sort o' diffumt-like, you know, 
An' minds a man of Long Ago ; 
The fire from the open grate 
Throws out his shadder long an* straight, 
An* looks t' me — an' alius does — 
Like gran'pap when the army was. 
57 



58 Gran'pap's Diversion 

In ashes gran 'pap trails his cane 

T' first Bull Run an' back again, 

An' then t' Richmond — back an' through — 

An' Spottsyl-van-y Courthouse, too, 

Where he fit at, an' Malvern Hill, 

An' there he stops, his voice grows still, 

An' wipes his brimmin' tears aside. 

For there '5 where gran'pap's comrade died. 

An' then, as fierce as ever, he 
Trails through the ashes after Lee 
Like once he really had t' do, 
An' ketches Lee, an' whoops him, too, 
At Gettysburg, an' breaks his line! 
Then like enuff the clock strikes nine, 
An' Myry whispers: "Pa, I 'low 
Its bedtime — war '5 all over now,'' 



A DAY WITH THE YOUNGSTERS. 

LITTLE SIX and Half-past Three 
Take my hands and come with me 
Down along the pasture way 
Where your daddy used t* play. 

Here 's a whistle whittled out 
Of a weepin' willow sprout — 
Hold it so an' press yer thumb, 
Blow an' watch the fairies come. 

Here 's some dandylions ! Blow 
Hard like this an' then you '11 knov' 
If yer mother 's wantin' you — 
Cross my heart and honest true I 

See that wren a-fussin' round 
On the fence an' on the ground 
Like she did n't want us here? 
Guess she 's got sum babies near. 

Cowpath turns right here, now git 
Down like this an' mooch a bit 
So 's 't the folks can't see us, then 
Mebbe call us home again. 
59 



6o A Day -witK tKe Yo-ungsters 

That 's enuff my beauties bright ! 
Now, we 're out of mother's sight — 
Dirty, loose and wild an' free 
Jist like daddy used to be ! 

Here 's the crick, the singin' stream 
Where your daddy used t' dream 
Take this bent pinhook an' fish — 
Let yer daddy lie an' wish! 

Now my chums we '11 take a swim — 
Hang yer clothes from yender limb ; 
Careful now, my buddies — there 
Now you 've gone an' wet yer hair! 

Now you '11 ketch it, yes sir-e-e-e 
Somehow mothers alius see ! 
Try t' dry it hard 's you kin. 
Mothers knows where boys have been! 

See the shadders stretchin' out 
'Mindin' us t' put about — 
Say it 's time the chores was done — 
Cracky, but we 've had some fun! 

Home again, along the way 
Where your daddy used t' play — 
See your mother's feigned surprise! 
See the tears in gramma's eyes! 



THE FIRST LOVE. 

MIND when I 'se a little chap 
Jist about a chair-arm high, 
Used t' climb in mother's lap 

Every evenin', mighty nigh; 
Alius called me her "best beau" 

Mother did, an' laughed, an' dad 
Used t' frown, an' fluster so 
P 'tendin'-like he's awful mad! 

Used t' like t' stroke her head 

Like a youngun alius does — 
"Lovin' her," I alius said — 

"Puppy love" she said it was; 
Jist the same there 's many a tear 

Quivered on her lids when she 
Heerd me whisper in her ear 

"She 's the sweetest girl for me." 

Sweetest girl of all! I swan, 

Mebbe now it 's out o' place 
One of my years takin' on 

Showin' sich a childish trace — 
Qingin' to her mem'ry yet— 

Longin' for her love again — 
Mebbe better jist forget 

Things I said to mother then. 
6i 



62 THe First Love 

But I can't! There 's times that I 

Feel I 'm jist a wanderer 
Lookin' low an' lookin' high 

Jist with hopes o' findin' her; 
Want to hear her voice an' then 

Plead with her t ' not forget — 
Tell her I 'm a boy again, 

An' the same opinion yet! 



THE VANISHING TROOPS. 

(To the looth Regiment, New York Volunteers, on 
the occasion of their 50th anniversary.) 

REVEILLE I 

FROM out the deep, grey mists of other days 
You come again, your tattered flags upraise; 
No roll of drums, no scream of martial fife. 
No glint of arms, no hint of hate or strife, 
No hissing shell, no boom of hostile gun, 
But only peace, the peace your victory won. 

FALL IN! 

Form slowly now, and not as once you did 

When war's alarms beset you and forbid 

The lagging step ! But let the drum beat slow, 

With less of vim than in the Long Ago ; 

For sturdy limbs, that bore you through the fray, 

Are tremulous with weight of years today. 

EYES FRONT! 

Those dimming eyes that saw the battle smokes 
Of countless fields — that roved from red Fair Oaks 
To war's grim end, and saw the woe and pain, 
The sacrifice of suffering and slain 
In Freedom's cause! Nor chide the tears that well 
As all comes back through Mem'ry's magic spell. 
63 



64 XHe VanisKing Troops 

ROLL CALL I 

Most sad of all that e'en the brave must die ! 

So many called and yet so few reply ! 

So many lost from noble ranks that fought, 

So many names of comrades long forgot ! 

And yet — who knows? — perhaps they hover near 

In spirit form and softly answer ''Here!" 

BREAK RANKS! 

You go from us, and vanish one by one. 
Your faith kept true and all your service done ! 
And as you go to take your honored posts 
With comrades There of grey and blue-clad hosts. 
You take our love and trust that ever will 
God's blessing rest upon you ! Soldiers still ! 



H 



GRAN 'DAD'S DAY. 

(Lincoln's Birthday) 

E ain't done nuthin', more ner less, fer twenty 
years er more 
But set around the kitchen stove, er in the woodhouse 

door 
In summertime, a-swattin' flies, an' dreamin' dreams 

ag'in 
About the march t' Richmond an' the fights he 

figured in ; 
He 's sort o' puttered 'round the place in quiet sort 

of way ; 
"You 'd skeersly know that gran'dad 's here!" is 

what we used t' say, 
Whilse watchin' him trim creepin' vines er pick sweet 

williamses, 
But he remembered Lincoln an' — well, yesterday 

was his! 

He's first one up around the place! Put on that round- 
about — 

Brass buttons on — 'at he wore home when he was 
mustered out. 

An' forage cap an' catridge box — an' durned 'f he 
did n 't lay 

His army rifle 'cross his knees in keerless sort o' way! 
9 65 



66 Gran'dad's Day 

An* there he sot the hull day long till light got sort 

o' dim, 
An' law they wa'n't a person here 's important-like 

as him! 
An' how we laffed but ma-says-ma; "Hesh up, you 

simple crowd, 
'Cause pa remembers Lincoln an' no wonder 'at he 's 

proud I ' ' 



A MELLOW OLD VOICE. 

BEFORE his voice was gone, an' when it come 
A Sunday-day, an' all us boys was home, 
We 'd gether 'round in sort of fambly ring, 
Talk politics or some such foolish thing, 
Then projeck 'round 'til pa agreed to sing 
The good old songs, the army tunes he sung 
'Fore we left home an' all us boys was young; 
The good old songs, an' I suppose they 're good 
'Cause they 're f ergot an' no more understood; 
But how they touched his full, deep -chested bass 
With melody that fairly filled the place 
Then rolled away jist on — an' on — an' on — 
O, how he sung before his voice was gone! 

My fav-er-ite? Why, if I tried t' call 

My fav-er-ite I 'd name 'em one an' all — 
Each melody his gentle mem'ry knew — 
Especially one, "The Old Red, White an' Blue" 
His regmunt sung the time the Grand Review 

In Washin'ton; it seems that when he sung 

Its sperrit touched his sabre blade that hung 

By wartime picture he jist can't abide, 

That once we laughed at, then growed up — an' 
cried! 

Then switch from that to some ol' songs, ma says 

He used t' sing enduring courtin' days; 

67 



68 A Mellow Old Voice 

She recollects ! An* woman-like, blame-don, 
Makes pa believe his singin* voice ain't gone! 

But nowadays his voice don't seem to me 
So timbered-like as what it used to be. 

Nor round an' full, an* it don't seem to set 
A-straddle notes an' pin 'em down, nor get 
The high notes out like once it did, and yet 
There 's somethin' in its rich an' tremblin' tone 
That jist belongs to pa — an' pa alone; 
It seems to jibe, as oldtime sayin' is, 
With his grey hairs an' them ol' songs of his — 
There 's somethin' in it, I say, seems to fit 
The hallowed past, the charm an' tune of it! 
Why, them old songs that he keeps har[)in' on, 
Sound sweeter now than 'fore his voice was gone ! 



THANKSGIVING DAY IN THE BOARDING 
HOUSE. 



TWAS quiet— O so quiet!— ii 
day Ion*'! 



! — in the house the whole 
;iy Ion*; 

No vagrant Hit of huighter, not a bit of mirth or song 

Was echoed through the hallways, not a hearty call 
or shout 

To break the dreary sIUmicc; not a soul was stirring 
out! 

The faces at the window pane grew vSad and turned 
away- 

There's something kin to tragedy that mars Thanks- 
giving Day! 

The Alabaster Lady and the Gent with Russet Shoes, 
Admitting they were indisposed, denied they had the 

blues; 
The Blonde with All the Finger Rings ran lightly 

o 'er the keys 
With "Promise Me" but yielded to the Manicure's 

"Please!" 
And when the postman went his way and left them 

naught but gloom, 
They, one by one, slipped out and sought the solace 

of their room. 

69 



70 TKanKsgivin^ Day 

And when, at night, they pondered on the mock'ry 

of it all. 
The Shabby One who occupied the alcove off the hall, 
Threw wide his door and softly played upon his 

violin 
The sweet refrains that touched the spot their mem- 

'ries linger in — 
The songs of home and faces gone, that 's writ for 

those who roam. 
And who shall say they did not spend Thanksgiving 

Night at home ! 




Threw wide his door and softly played upon his violin. 



HOMESICKNESS. 

SINCE I ' ve been a-traipsin' roun 
Here an' there, from town to town, 
'Spatiatin' on the points, 
Patent rights an' extra joints 
Dobbses' Dashless Churn has got— 
Lyin' 'bout 'em, like as not— 
Sellin' folks "blue sky," as the 
Sayin' is, it seems t' me 
I 've had more than usual time 
To reflect on things, an' I 'm ^ 
Plum convinced that home is jest 
Better place than all the rest, 
An' gits better too, to- wit. 
Further off you git from it! 

'T'ain't so bad to ease your mind 
Thinkin' home ain't far behind— 
Hundred miles perhaps, or two, 
Ain't upsettin' none to you; 
But, you git so far away 
Postal cards that 's mailed today 
Won't git there for, Lordy knows. 
Much 'fore Gab'rul's trumpet blows !- 
Then 's the time you feel your mouth 
Sort o' droppin' towards the South, 
71 



72 HomesicKness 

An' you *d give your chance for wings 
Jist to see oV folks an' things — 
Trumpet vines an' ivy too, 
Twistin' round the heart of you! 

Head it off ! Pull down your vest ! 
Gallivant off farther West 
Manful-like, as if it wa'n't 
Nowheres near so long a jaunt 
From your home ; but presently 
Every dad-burned tree you see 
Is the "weepin' willow" kind, 
Sort o' havin' you in mind! 
Whipper wills sing sadder there — 
Lonesomer — than enny where ! 
'Til at last you simply durn 
Dobbses' Patent Dashless Churn, 
Plank your heart an ' wallet down 
" What '5 the fare to Morgantown ?" 



THE VILLAGE TINKER. 

WITH the solemn service through, 
What 's the village goin' to do?- 
Who '11 the folks depend upon, 
Seein' Billy Harper 's gone? 



Nothin ' in the man would strike 
Anyone oncommonlike, 
*Cept his hands — from "heel" to tip 
Marked the natcherl craftmanship, 
Like they is some hands that do I 
An ' his eyes was special, too — 
Hazel eyes, as keen an' jus' 
Stiddy as his drawshave was! 
Then his mouth, that alius 'peared 
Puckered 'round some time he 'd heard 
Jus' a part of an' was glad 
Whistlin' the stock he had I 

"Jack of trades," as sayin' is, 
'Ceptin' that all trades was his; 
Made a leg for Cap'n Ayres 
So 's 't he wore his pants in pairs 
All his days; axi' I allow 
Nary reaper, thresher, plow, 
73 



74 The Village TinKer 

Nothin* else around these parts, 
Ain't responded to his arts! 
Made a music-box for niece — 
Played that ol' " Blue Danube" piece 
On a catridge, prob *ly some 
Soldier brought when he come home. 

Got a sort o' plan in min' 
For the Bibbs boy's crooked spine 
"Get some hick'ry, " he-says-he, 
"Somethin' soft, that would n't be 
Harsh enough t' galled the skin. 
Make a cast an' bind him in!" 
Made it too, but land o' love, 
Lopped his finger off above 
Second joint, an' gangrene set 
'Fore the naybors folks could get 
News of it — an' there he lay 
J 'st enough of breath to say : 
"Bend more in than out an' then 
Bet you he '11 grow well again!" 



Now he 's dead an' burrit too, 
What 's the townsfolks goin' t' do? — 
Wait, I s'pose, till somethin' brings 
Someone else to tinker things. 



EVERYONE— BUT MOTHER. 

SUNDAY, at our house, we 
Have all sort of rompin' — 
Father an' the twins an' me 

1st go trompin' — trompin' — 
Berryin' an' gettin' posies, 
Hackberries an' these wild roses- 
Yes, an' chase each other! — 
1st the bestest time there be. 
Everyone — ^but mother. 

Nen comes dinner time, we 

1st all eat until it 
S'prises father— he can't see 

How we never spill it! 
1st pie-plant an' berry pie. 
Jelly tarts an' such— O my. 

We ist race each other, 
Eatin' 'til we most can't see, 

Everyone — but mother. 

Nen, when dinner's done, we 

All go off a-sleepin' 
Underneath the maple tree, 
Where they 's shadows creepin' 
75 



76 Everyone — B\it MotKer 

'Cross our faces — one that 's near, 
When we wake is over here^ 

And they ist chase each other! 
Nen we 're rested as can be, 

Everyone — but mother. 

When comes night, we set 

All around the table, 
Pickin' at the bones we et 

Long as we are able; 
Nen we set on mother's knee — 
"Story time," that is, and she 

Tells one after t' other, 
'Til we 're 'sleep an' ist forget 

Everyone — -but mother! 



THE KNACK OF RHYME. 

IF I persessed the knack of rhyme 
Sich as poet chaps possess, 
I would n't spend a jot o* time 

Rhymin' things that they confess! 
Would n't soar all about 
'Til my wings was tired out, 
Like a Junebug's is that flew 
Further than he meant t' do. 

It 'pears t' me if I could rhyme 
Really rhyme — like poets does. 

Instead o' seekin' heights sublime, 
Here I 'd stay where beauty was, 

Settin' words t' homely things. 

Themes of everyday, that sings 
In a meter swingin' free 
'Thout no help from you or me. 

I 'd lift the lily's head an' look 
In her eyes, an' say as much — 

An' rhyme the sparkHn' dew that shook 
OfE her when she felt my touch — 

Ask her 'bout the message she 

Brings t' folks like you an' me; 
Then, t' sort o' change the screed, 
Sing about a jimson weed! 
77 



78 TKe UnacK of RHyme 

I 'd tromp the medders all day long 

Rhymin' Nature 's " Howdy-do ! ' 
An' ketch the kill-dee's sassy song 

Comin' cross the fields t' you — 
Rhyme snake fences, cricks an' grass, 
Hollyhocks an' garden sass — 

Things we love an' cherish, ner 

Never need excuses fer! 

If I coiild rhyme I 'd scorn the things 
Poets choose, of lofty brands, 

I 'd put my songs t' homely things, 
Things that pore folks understands — 

Things God made an' meant t' be 

Jist fer folks like you and me — 
Spread 'em at our feet an ' said : 
"Here *s My best; be comforted." 



A COUNTRY-SIDE LOVER'S CONFESSION. 

I'VE alius held it as a fact that, taken by an' through, 
The pathway that the children take is safe for 
me an ' you — 
For any way their footsteps lead is purty apt t' be 
Devoid of snares an' pitfalls an' deceit especially. 

An' I suppose that 's how it comes that I meander 

down 

To Angeliny Hoover's house at t'other end of town 

Most every other night or so, pursuant to my creed 

Of feelin' safe when follerin' where children's 

footsteps lead. 

The house is sort o' bias-ed as a carpenter would say, 
All covered up with roses that skedaddle every 
way. 
As if they 'd been stampeded by the rush the children 
make 
On Angeliny 's ginger-bread an' cookies an' her 
cake. 

She ain 't adzackly widdered 'cause she was n 't never 
wed; 
"She 's jist been sort o' single" as the nayburs 
alius said, 

79 



8o A Covintry-Side Lover's Confession 

"Since Gettysburg," an' spent her time in provin' 
in her way 
That wiminfolks are loyal as the menfolks any 
day. 

She 's spent her time in provin' that the creed she 
reckons best 
Is that which makes the children an' herself the 
happiest — 
That friedcakes, gems or cookies or an 8xii slice 
Of bread an' jell are better than the hullsomest 
advice. 

An' lately I have followed where the children's foot- 
steps led, 
An' gorged my tarnal wizzen with Miss Hoover's 
cake an' bread; 
Like children, I 've been beggin' an' a-pullin' at her 
hem, 
Until she says I 'm purty nigh pestiferous as them ! 



FINDIN' FAULT. 

WE 'VE had enough of winter time!" the 
medders seem t* sigh; 
The woodlot makes the same complaint that medders 

do, an' then 
Forever Hke it had the knack of speech, Hke you an* I , 
All Nature hollers somethin' like a Methodist 

"Amen!"— 
We *ve had enough of winter time t' last 'til crack o' 

doom — 
We hanker after summer with its singin' birds an' 

bloom. 

"We 've had enough of winter time" the orchard 

trees declare, 
As plain as if a tree could talk the same as me an* 

you! — 
An' seems t ' sigh most human-like to feel the chubby, 

bare. 
Brown legs of boys caress their sides like what they 

used t' do ; 
**We 've had enough of winter time! We want to 

blossom sweet. 
An' litter up the ground with fruit for boys and girls 

to eat." 
6 8i 



82 rindin* FaiJilt 

"I Ve had enough of winter time!" I swan, it seems 

to me 
The ellum tree beside the house is try in' hard to coax; 
I reckon that it sorrows Hke a body does to see 
The swing a-hangin' empty 'stid of piled with little 

folks! 
"I 've had enough of winter time, of cold an' winter 

sky — 
I 'm happiest when the children play at 'Let the 

old cat die'." 

"We 've had enough of winter!" Everything airoun' 

the farm. 
From hired hands to ginny hens, has got the same 

idees ! 
Then like as not, as if it heard, the sun '11 come out 

warm 
An' melt the snow an' discontent as easy as you 

please ! — 
An' seems to say, "Well, if you 're set on Summer 

time ag'in. 
Majority will have to rule — I '11 do the best I kin!" 



PRACTICAL PIETY. 

IAIN 'T, nor never said I be, 
Much posted on theology, 
Nor take no stock in learned prayers 
Like lots o' people fashion their 's, 
'Til angels, spite of boundless love. 
Jest could n't make no record of! 
An' yet there 's lots of things I know 
'Cause daily life has proved 'em so. 

The prosperest man I know, an' jest 
The godliest an* piousest, 
Has made a creed t' fit his plan; 
"God, make me love my feller man, " 
An' whilst his faith is firm an' true. 
An' as perscribed by preachers, too. 
He keeps an eye, I rise t' state. 
On grocerymen for sand an' weight. 

" Make all Thy creatures love me, " is 
Another prayin' creed of his. 
An' yet he 's just as scarce as I 'm. 
Around a team in hoss-fly time ! — 
Nor never takes no chances, friend. 
Around a barn-mule's business end — 
An' in his creed they ain't a thing 
For humorin' a hornet's sting. 
83 



84 Practical Piety 

I ain't, nor don't suppose that he, 

Is posted on theology, 

An' yet his creed an' ways an' all 

Electioneers the practical! 

He never bargains, when he prays. 

For nothin' more than reason says. 

An' consequences is, of sich. 

The man I know 's alive an ' rich ! 



IN PRAISE OF UNCLES. 

WE 'RE generally truthful, their mother an' me — 
"They profit by parents' examples," says 
she; 
But times when their uncle comes down for a spell, 
He ain't so pertikler 'bout truthfulness — well, 
It 's 'cause he 's a bachelor, I reckon, an' law, 
Of all the shinnanigan you ever saw 
Or heard of, falls short of his lyin', a heap! — 
Why, even invention, I reckon, feels cheap ! 

An' here 's how he goes: "All you younguns come 

here, 
An' gather around by the side of my cheer; 
I 've had the all-firedest, wonderfulest dream! — 
A dream about fairies a-straddle a beam 
Of sunshine that spilled 'em right out on the ground, 
On a spot where there 's Lolly pop trees all around, 
'Way off in the South where the fairyfolk goes 
Because they can't live in our blizzards an' snows; 
An' there they was rompin', with nary a thing 
To do but git fixed to come back in the Spring! 
There 's big ones and little ones, lean ones an' fat, 
With hummin' birds' feathers all stuck in their hat, 
An' pearls that showed in their mouths when they 'd 

grin, 
An' fellers with thistle-down beards on their chin; 

85 



86 In Praise of Uncles 

A squidgy old chap was a-mendin * his face — 

Some younguns was drivin ' a tumble-bug race — 

An' one little runt was improvin' his chance 

With cobweb an' needle by patchin' his pants; 

An' two that was twenty times weenty as you 

Was splashin' each other with drippin's of dew, 

Whilst one little chap takes his sweetheart and skips 

Away an' gits honey all over his lips! 

An' that was the way that they put in the day, 

A little of workin' an' plenty of play, 

'Til all of a sudden they skedaddled an' law, 

'T was worstest confusion that ever you saw; 

An' a little old feller an inch or so tall, 

Who seemed like he might be the boss of 'em all, 

Called: 'Squid-jum-co'-squee! Come saddle your 

bees. 
Before long the green will be back in the trees!* " 



. . . . An' ma, she-says-she: 

' ' What can you expect that them younguns will be 
By the time they grow up, if you tell 'em such lies?' 
"As good as their uncle, we hope!" I replies. 



LITTLE "MISS P'TEND." 

ONCE I went where muver said I mus' n't ever go, 
We live in a apartment house an* course we 
never know 

Who folks be lives next to us, an' muver always say 

P'haps they ain't our equals so us better stay away; 

Once I did n't mind her though, an' went "p'tendin' 
call" 

All alone, to all the doors an' tapping on them all! 

Once a man come to the door an' telled me "Howdy- 
do." 

'Nen he fold his arms an' say, " My gracious, who be 
you?" 

"Me," I say, "I 'm jes' p'tend I 'm callin' on my 
friend." 

*Nen he laugh an' say, "Come in, my little Miss 
P'tend!" 

" My, " I say, " I dess you ain't been very spry today — 
You ain't got your work done up like muver has!" 

I say; 
*Nen he laugh an' say' "Ho, ho, that makes no 

diff'rence for 
No one ever calls on me — I 'm 'ist a bachelor"; 
O, we had the mostest fun that ever there can be, 
Lookin' at his picture books an' fings he showed to 

me; 

87 



88 Little "Miss Ftend" 

Taked me on his knee, he did, an' patted down my 

curls 
'Cause, he said, he *s very fond of little bits o' girls; 
Ast me would I 'splain to him, since he 's my tnily 

friend, 
How the little childruns play the game of "Let *s 

P'tend." 

"Let 's p'tend," I say to him, "that you don't live 

alone — 
Let 's p'tend you live with us, and I 'm your very 

own — 
Let 's p'tend my muver runs a race with me to see 
Which of us can kiss you first when you come home to 

tea; 
Let 's p'tend it 's after tea an* time for bed an* you 
Tell me bestest stories like my papa always do ; 
Let 's p'tend you hug me tight an' kiss me on my 

curls 
'Cause you feel so bad for folks without no little girls; 
Let 's p'tend — *' — an' 'nen I stop because he walked 

away, 
Something had got in his eye an' hurted him, he say. 

'1st when he come back again an* taked me on his 

knee, 
Down where our folks live I hear my muver callin' 

me! 
*Nen I telled the Bach 'lor Man I dess I 'd runned 

away 
An' I dessed it was n 't fashionable to make no longer 

stay. 



Little "Miss P'tend- 89 

Muver say she 's sorry at her child can't understan' 
Little folks had never ought to interrup' a man; 
"Ho," he say, "he 's awful glad to have so nice a 

friend 
Call on him an' talk to him as Little Miss P'tend!" 



'Nen when we go 'way I see his chin 'ist wrinkle! 

Why 
'1st like what us childrun's does when we want to 

cry! 



THE FIRST SORROW. 

THE first we knew of sorrow! How it all comes 
back 
When oft we turn, in fancy, on the old back- track, 
By pathways through the pasture and the dark, 

dense wood, 
That led us to the clearing where the schoolhouse 
stood. 

The handbell calls the children to their tasks again, 
A dozen little women and as many small men ; 
And 'cross the aisle beyond me, to believe my eye, 
I catch a glimpse of girlhood through the years gone 
by. 

A fleeting glimpse of girlhood, with a sad sweet face, 
That now I know was with us just by God's good 

grace ; 
And while I sit and ponder and my dream leads on, 
The vision seems to vanish and the face is gone. 

I sense the dread of something, the vacant seat 

And the whispered conversations in the noon's re- 
treat, 

The teacher's perturbation, and the little ones' 
stare. 

And all the air of mystery 'round the vacant seat 

there. 

90 



XKe First Sorrcw 91 

The handbell calls the children and with tear-dimmed 

eye 
The teacher then dismissed us with a reason why ; 
And two by two we marshaled through the long green 

lane — 
A world of golden Springtime wet with April rain. 



It all comes back! The sorrow and the deep, dank 

gloom, 
And some one sobbing — weeping — in the spare front 

room, 
The preacher's words to ''Suffer little ones to come to 

me," 
The spell of death — the wonder — and the strange 

mystery ! 

The handbell calls the children to their tasks again, 

Eleven little women and a dozen small men, 

Who wandered to their places, all with lagging 

feet, 
And seemed to step more softly by the vacant seat. 

Her seatmate seemed so lonely! And a neighbor's 

child took 
The orphaned slate and pencil and the dog-eared 

book; 
The morning prayer was longer, too, and every one 

tried 
To hide the tears and sorrow, and the teacher 

cried! 



92 TKe First Sorro-w 

The first we knew of sorrow ! How it all comes back 
When oft we turn, in fancy, on the old back- track! 
And though it 's touched not lightly since we 're 

women and men, 
Ah, Sorrow never made a deeper scar than then! 



'^SILENT JOE." 

HE never was much of a man t' talk — we know 
him as * ' Silent Joe ' ' ; 
He come t' town in the spring — or fall? — along with 
a circus show ; 
Had a wife when he struck the town — 
Animile trainer — an' him a clown, 
The laughablest feller you ever saw or ever you 'd 

care t' know! 
They pitched their tents on the circus lot t* the left 

o' that little rise, 
An' played the tricks that a circus does — the foolin' 
that jist defies 
Blues, an' tickled our little town, 
Specially him that was playin' clown, 
But nobody saw all the woes he had an' the tears in 
his laughin' eyes. 

The woman was sort o' consumpted-like — her trouble 

was written clear! 
He helped her onto the stage that night — or carried 
her purty near ! 
Kissed her twict on the for'h'd, then 
Locked her into the animile den. 
An' he went back t' the circus ring t' peddle his 
jokes an' cheer. 

93 



94 "Silent Joe •• 

It rained that night Hke it alius does when circuses 

come t' town — 
The thunder rolled an' the lightin' flashed an' worter 
come beatin' down; 
There in the tent by the flashin' light, 
He kep' her side through the stormy night, 
But the woman died in the feller's arms — ari' the rest 
of the show went on ! 

He kep ' his watch 'til the mornin' come and tenderly 

held his dead, 
Then asked for a spot "where the grass was green an' 
the skies blue overhead ' ' ; 
"Some place that 's purty, " he says-says-he, 
"Like she knowed 'fore she come with me" ; 
An' chose a grave in a wildrose patch "because it 's 

like her," he said; 
An' here he 's staid since that stormy night — we know 

him as "Silent Joe" — 
He never is much of a talkin' man, nor specially 
jokeful, though 
Fellers that saw him that circus day 
Play in' the clown for the younguns, say 
He 's laughablest feller you ever saw or ever you 'd 
care t' know! 



JEALOUSY. 

ERE 'S little Thomas Tapper, he 
Ain't more'n half as big as me, 
An' he 's got double- jointed toes 
An' thumbs like folks in circus shows. 

An' Tommy Tupper's hair don't fit, 
'Cause he can take an' wiggle it 
'1st back an' forth — an' for a pin 
He '11 wiggle both his ears, he kin ! 

An' when he say: "Look out for me!" 
You best look out for him, 'cause he 
'1st straddles you, an' 'fore you know 
He makes up faces at you — so I 

An' once he dropped his jack-knife down 
Behind his feet an' bend aroun' 
An' git it with his teeth; that 's ist 
The same like real contortiomist ! 

An' that 's the way he waste his time 
"'1st foolishly," maw says, an' I 'm 
Surprised, 'cause like enuff he won't 
Growup to be no Pres-i-dunt ! 
95 



ANGELINY KERR. 

THERE 'S times the parson soars on the things 
that *s goin' t' be 
Across the River Jordan in the Land Etarnal ; he 
Paints real enticin' pitchers of the angels fur an' near, 
All totin* harps and fiddles that they 're playin' on 

by ear; 
I look acrosst the meetin' house at Angeliny Kerr, 
An' settle back an' close my eyes an' try t' pitcher 

her 
A-playin' on a golden harp, an' flyin' like a pigeon — 
I swanny, it comes mighty nigh a-bustin' my religion! 

Her voice is sort o' all wore out an' skeersly strikes 

a chord — 
Her hands are gnarled from workin' in the vineyard 

of the Lord — 
Her face is wrinkled, pore an' old an' furrowed up 

with care, 
Yit underneath the mask of age a smile is alius there ; 
But good as what I know she is, it 's hard t' pitcher 

her 
A-fiyin' with the angel flocks — ol' Angeliny Kerr! — 
It 's more like her t' stay behind — work day an' night, 

a-tryin' 
T' patch and mend the wore-out duds fer other folks 

t' fly in! 

96 



An^eliny K.err 97 

There ain't a place the kentry 'round where sorrow's 

up an' lit, 
That 'Liny ain't been on the spot alleviatin' it! 
She 's seen the childem come an* grow, an' heerd 'em 

laugh an' shout, 
An' more 'n likely crossed their hands an' helped t' 

lay 'em out; 
She 's won her way t' Glory's throne where peace an' 

rest is at, 
But, 'Liny playin' on a harp! I can't imagine that! 
She ain't a-goin' t' be so much fer looks up there in 

Glory, 
But when it comes t' records! — Well, now that's 

another story ! 



THE OLD ROSE DRESS. 

BENEATH the eaves where the fragrant bloom 
Sweeps back and forth like the player's bow 
Across the strings, and the attic room 

Is filled with a cadence, soft and low, 
Away in the corner, where none may know 

A chest is hidden — grown old so soon — 
And there, with the treasures of long ago, 
The old rose dress of another June. 

Her first long dress; for the bride was young. 

Her heart was light and her face was fair 
The day she buried the gown among 

Her cherished things, and she left it there. 
Now Time has whitened her raven hair. 

And Life sings low in a plaintive tune. 
Except when she steals up the attic stair, 

To the old rose dress of another June. 

Her own have come and her own have gone, 

And all have stood 'neath the marriage bell, 
Where guests were gathered to bid them on 

Their rosied way and to wish them well ; 
The guests have gone and the silent spell 

Has come, that follows the bridal noon, 
And found her there, where the tear-drops fell 

On the old rose dress of another June. 
98 



TKe Old Rose Dress 99 

No man may know of a woman's part 

In Life's whole test, nor the tears it brings, 
Nor understand how her woman 's heart 

Is all enwrapped by the little things — 
A little worn shoe with its tasseled strings, 

A broken slate or a pewter spoon — 
And, O, the wealth of the joy that clings 

To the old rose dress of another June. 



MY SHADDER AND ME. 

A-ROAMIN' the fields an' the medders of green 
Where Nature sprawls out in the air^ — ■ 
The medders as calm as the still river sheen 

An' soft as a sweetheart's hair; 
Away from the town an' its noise an' its buzz, 

To where things are still as can be ; 
Why, we seem t' fit in the silence, because 
There 's only my shadder an' me. 

In climbin' the hills, when we wander away, 

I generally lead by a head — • 
My shadder trails on, but with nothin' to say, 

As glum as a calf bein' led! 
But when it comes night an' the supper horn sounds. 

My shadder would make a man laugh, 
The way it starts home'ards by leaps an' by bounds, 

An' wins by a length an' a half. 

There 's never a word nor a quarrel betwixt 

The two of us, ever I see; 
There 's never no diff'rence nor spats t' be fixed — 

The two of us alius agree. 
I foller wherever my fool fancy goes, 

An' nuther one ever gets mad — 
An' the way we get on in our pardnership shows — 

Primy facy — my shadder is glad ! 

100 




" There's only my shadder an' me." 



My SHadder and Me lOi 

I Ve had plenty friends of the humaner kind 

That 's apter to quarrel an' fret, 
An' hang on a diff 'rence of taste or of mind, 

An' some of 'em harbor 'em yet! 
I 've tried t' get on with 'em all, but I swear 

They "Haw" when I want 'em to "Gee," 
An' I have concluded the tractahlest pair 

Of all is my shadder an' me. 



AMBITIONS. 

WHEN Uncle Dudley visits here — 
An' he lives off at Morgantown — 
He 's good as boys is, purty near, 

To waller with an' romp around! 
He ist gets down on mother's rug 

On hands an' knees an' creeps about 
At "pick-a-back" an' "straddle-bug" 

Until he 's 'pletely tuckered out! 
An' when he 's rested, by an' by, 

He pats my head an' says he won't 
Be bit surprised if some day I 

Turn out to be the Presidunt ! 

An' my aunt Mary 's ist so prim 

An' purty, 'cept she's got mustache, 
An' lives in Morgantown with him — 

She tells him 'at he 's talking trash, 
'Cause that ain't what I 'm goin' to be. 

An' hopes when time for choosin' comes 
'At I '11 perfer The-o-lo-gy 

An' preach for Presbyteriums ; 
An' pa ist laughs as hard 's he can, 

An' says that he '11 be glad — an' more — 
If I ist be a honest man. 

An' own a bank or grocery store. 

102 



Ambitions 103 

An' when they Ve gone away I go 

Behind the barn an' take my pup, 
An' mebbe stay a hour or so, 

An' shut my teeth an' double up 
My fists an' say: "I won't! / won't! 

Be minister when I get grown, 
Ner honest man ner Presidunt!" 

I '11 run away all soul alone 
When I get big — an' then they '11 cry! 

I '11 take my pup an' gun an' sled, 
An' go 'way off somewhere an' buy 

A mer '-go-round all painted red! 



THE MISER. 

AT the end of the day when from labor and toiling 
I 've stolen apart, 
I measure my wealth like a miser from standards Love 

placed in my heart, 
My riches I count by a table 't was fashioned by 

parents of old — 
The words of my oldest are silver, the little one's 

prattle is gold ; 
Their big lustrous eyes are but diamonds, their teeth 

are the finest of pearls, 
And all of my fortune 's invested in one little boy and 

my girls! 
And more than their smiles and their laughter, a 

treasure more priceless than all, 
Is the lingering print of their kisses and the patter 

of feet in the hall. 

The soft spoken prayer from the bedroom, the plea 

they are lisping above 
To One who is friend to the children, to watch over 

those whom they love, 
The whispered good-night and the play-spell, the 

silvery laugh and their glee, 
All this is but part of the interest on wealth that 's 

been given to me! 

104 



TKe Miser 105 

The gold of a monarch is sordid and soiled with the 

greed of his hands, 
*T will buy him a crown and its jewels and gain for 

him power and lands, 
Yet cannot buy love of the children nor purchase him 

treasure like this — 
The patter of feet on the stairway and the lingering 

print of a kiss. 



BEN TARR ON "BEARIN' THE CROSS.' 

" [ 'VE never had no cross t' bear" ; 

1 You meet such people now an' then, 
Who 've never had no fret er care 
T' harry 'em like other men — 
No tears er woes ; 
But Lordy knows 
I pity 'em, where'er they air, 
Who 've never had no cross t' bear! 

You *ve never had no cross t' bear? 

Then you don't know ner understand 
The gentleness of Him up There, 
Ner 'preciate this pleasant land 
You 're livin' in ; 
You best begin 
T' bear a cross an' then y' '11 see 
How thankful mortal man kin be ! 

You 've never bore no cross, y' say? 

Well, then I take it, friend, that you 
Have had no clouds t * drift away 
An' let the sun come shinin' through 
Like sunbeams kin, 
A-whisperin' 
That trubble 's gone away an' then 
It *s time fer you t' smile again. 
1 06 



Ben Tarr on "Bearin* tKe Cross" 107 

You Ve never had no cross t' bear? 
No woes er tears er rail distress? 
You 've never ast His help Up There, 
Ner never felt His tenderness? 
It 's so, I s'pose, 
But Lordy knows 
I pity you, where'er you air, 
Who 've never had no cross t' bear! 



A PICTURE IN THE WORTER. 

WHEN little fellers stoop t' drink 
or fashioned way — without no cupf- 
I wonder, don't they stop t' think 
About the face that 's peerin' up? 

I wonder, don't they look behind 
The ol' straw hat an' happy smile, 

Ner have no thought of enny kind 
About the wrinkles afterwhile ? 

Behind the picture, young an' fair, 

I wonder don't they ever see 
Another one a-hidin* there, 

Of ol' baldheaded chap like me? 



io8 



THE TREASURE CHESTS. 

IN an old-fashioned room at the head of the stair 
Was a box of old treasures, and hidden in there 
Was a little print book and a quaintly marked slate, 
A little worn shoe that was minus its mate, 
A whistle and spool and a tangle of string. 
An odd little bell that was minus its ring. 
O *t was many a treasure was hidden in there — 
In the red cedar chest at the head of the stair! 

In the days of our childhood, before we could know, 
It was ever beyond us why mother should go 
And kneel by the side of the red cedar chest. 
And press the worn shoe and the slate to her 

breast — 
Why sorrow and weeping should sadden the whiles, 
The face we knew better in motherly smiles! 
And today we know why! It was ages ago. 
In the days we were young and before we could know. 

But today we are older, with burdens and cares, 
And with hearts' understanding of motherhood's 
prayers ; 
We know that the hardest of battles that come 
Are not the ones fought to the tap of the drum, 
109 



no XHe Treasvire CKests 

But those that are waged in the sadness and gloom 
When motherhood kneels in an old-fashioned 



room 



I 



Why, a half the world's heartaches and sorrows and 

cares 
Are in old treasure chests at the head of the stairs ! 



RIGHT HERE T' HOME. 

HINES an' ol' Doc Folinsbee, 
Chet an' Zack an' Elder Light, 
An' the Carter boys — an' me — 

Got t' gassin' t' other night 
Down t ' the store on towns we 'd seed — 
Argyfyin' on where we 'd 
Ruther live an' hang our pants 
If we only had the chance. 

Doc says Filadelfy, 'cause 

He *s been speshul struck by that 

Since the time Centenyul was 
Where he went a-visitun at — 

" Jist too fine fer mortal praise, 

Filadelfy is," Doc says; 

Whilst the oldest Carter — Jim — 
Struck on Washin'ton fer him. 

Zack's first ch'ice was Terry Hut, 
Where his mother's folks live at, 

Makin' Magic Skin Salve — but 

'Lowed that Springfield's next t' that; 

or Bill Hines an' Chet agreed 

Omyha 'bout hit their breed ; 

Elder 'lowed that by and through, 
Enny place but here would do! 
Ill 



112 Rig'Kt Here t' Home 

Then I riz an' I-says-I, 

Sort o' hunchin' up my cheer, 
"If I have my ruthers, why, 

Rut her live an' die right here — 
Here where even Junebug's song 
'S twict as loud an' twict as long 
*S what a Junebug's singin' is 
Elsewhere, in this world o' His! 

'Right here, where I reckin God 
Finished up His work an' cares, 

Washed His hands an' smiled as broad 
An' as glad as ennywheres — 

Sort o' pleased with what He 'd done!- 

Swanny, I don't blame Him none! 

No sir-e-e, fer me, I vum, 
Hang my pants right here t' hum!" 



THE PASSING OF THE CHILDREN. 

THE children we love, O where do they go 
When tired of play and their tiny bare feet 
Turn down the broad road where the butter-cups grow, 
And beautiful skies and the meadow lands meet — 
All happy and tried, O where do they go. 
The children we love, does anyone know? 

The children we love, O what do they see 

Beyond the bright fields, that calls them away, 

That leads the dear children from you and from me 
And leaves them no choice but to go and obey ; 

What vision attracts them, what fate can it be — 

What is it, I wonder, that little folks see? 

The children we love become women and men — 
A toll that Time claims — but in fancy I see 

Their shadows, still happy and joyous as when 

They romped and they prattled all da}^ at our 
knee — 

They seek the far fields and the blossoms, and then 

They live in the bloom of the flowers again. 



113 



THE FISHING TRIP. 

"HPHE preacher goes along today!" 
1 Quoth Dick to Bill and I ; 

' * If you would read your titles clear 
To mansions in the sky, 

Behave yourself and do not swear f' 
We promised we would try. 

As seemed to us to quite befit 

His saintly presence there, 
We opened up the fishing trip 

With reverential prayer ; 
And never once did either one 

Permit himself to swear! 

When Billy lost a "strike" he 'd quote 

From Peter or from Paul — 
When I got snagged or lost my line 

I solace found in Saul, 
And parables were mixed that day 

With hooks and lines and all. 

We plumed ourselves we 'd done so well- 
So dignified, sedate — 

And had no pangs or vain regrets 
'Til afternoon, and late. 

We heard the preacher damn a crab 
That pinched off all his bait I 
114 



AS STRANGE AS IT MAY SEEM. 

THE ornerest feller on No Bizness Crick — 
The miser 'blest man! — was a feller named Slick, 
An * all the cummunity knowed him 
For a grumblin ' feller that everyone owed ; 
An' the happiest feller that ever I knowed, 
I jocks, was a feller that owed him! 



115 



TO A STRANGER. 

STRANGE your voice and strange your face, 
And strange the eyes that twinkled through, 
Yet, in yonder market place 
Today, I felt akin to you. 

What a cheerful, wholesome smile! 

A necromancer's mystic skill. 
Scarce could charm and so beguile, 

And make a bright day brighter still ! 

Thank you, friend, for being here. 

And thank you for your snatch of song. 

Thank you, for your bit of cheer. 
And for the smile you passed along. 

Little things? Ah, you forget 

The hosts of men who know them not — • 
The thoughts of them will linger yet 

When creeds and dogmas are forgot ! 



Il6 



THE STAGE THAT RUNS OVER TO PIKE. 

(Celebrating a certain lecture engagement extra- 
ordinary.) 

OUT on the Lecturer's Circuit where potluck the 
rarest obtains, 
Out where the fees are contingent on trifles like bean 

crops and rains, 
There lie the faraway hamlets where people all hunger, 

't is said, 
After mere driblets of wisdom (at a quarter and fifty 

a head) 
There lies the goal of the "talent" — by carry-all, 

auto and stage 
They bear the uplifting message that brightens a 

Stygian age! — 
Going by every conveyance, but of all there is none 
of them like 

The rickety, ambling. 
Swaying and shambling 
Stage that runs over to Pike ! 

Once have I traveled by airship, once in a litter-like 

chair, 
Once I was toted by Mongols in a sort of a hammock 

affair; 

117 



ii8 TKe Stage tHat Runs over to PiKe 

Once did I go by the Erie (and once was quite ample 

for mine !) 
Once I have sensed the discomforts of the Jaffa- 
Jerusalem line. 
All of these lines I have mentioned were sufficiently 

cursed by the fates — 
Some were most horribly smelly while others had flat 

wheels or waits ; 
All had the charms of discomfort, but believe me, 
there *s none of them like 
That rickety, rattling — 
Maxim or Gatling? — 
Stage that runs over to Pike! 

Where was the Goddess of Humor when the stage 

driver bore me away — 
Where were the frivolous Muses? — all soundly 

sleeping I pray, 
Else how they 'd snickered and tittered and giggled 

in feminine glee. 
Seeing that strange contradiction which the same 

contradiction was me, 
''Optimist, Poet and Reader; a Lifetime of Sunshine 

Distilled 
Into a Two Hour Lecture" (for that was the way I 

was billed!) 
Hunched all up in the stage-coach in a pose that no 

Christian could strike, 

Damning that ambling, 
Swaying and shambling 
Stage that runs over to Pike! 



THE MERRY-GO-ROUND. 

I'VE seen the painted hobbies in their trappings, 
gay and bright, 
Cavorting 'neath the canvas in the Land of Child's 

DeHght— 
The rearing, tearing horses, with their "Sticky Finger " 

brand, 
Awhirl in happy madness to the music of the band ; 
I 've heard the youngsters' voices and I 've shared 

their childish glee — 
I wish the painted hobbies meant a half as much to 

me! 

The horse has lost his bridle and the tiger 's weeping 

tears 
In sorrow for the zebra that is minus both its ears ; 
The lion grows ferocious and he seems disposed to 

scoff 
Upon the lowly llama 'cause its paint is coming off, 
And though they *re all dismantled, and in such a 

woeful plight, 
They seem to love the journey to the Land of 

Child's DeHght. 

The whistle blows the warning, then a pressure of the 

hand — 
A little hand like velvet — and away to Happy Land ; 

119 



120 THe Merry-Go-Ro-und 

Away across the meadows to the Realm of Mystery, 
A place of gold and tinsel that a grownup cannot see, 
To look upon its wonders, and to breathe its beauty 

rare, 
Then back again to mother from the happy journey 

there. 

When all the fun is over and the evening prayers are 

said — 
They Ve had their "dink of watty" and the angels 

guard their bed — 
I love to watch them sleeping; why, their chubby 

fingers seem 
To guide some painted charger through the valleys 

of their dream ! 
I wonder why they 're smiling and I wonder what 

they see? — 
I wish the painted hobbies meant a half as much to 

me! 



NO WELCOME. 

" /^^ where is the child with the far-away eyes?" 
K^ The robin asks, and the groundbird cries 
A welcome note 'neath the window ledge, 
And sportively hides in the thorny hedge ; 
The jonquils and the jump-ups speak, 
And crave the press of his rosy cheek, 
The touch of his hand and his happy smile, 
And Spring and its songsters grow still the while 
The new world wonders in mute surprise 
"O where is the child with the far-away eyes?" 

"O where is the child with the far-away eyes?" 

The blossoms ask and with heartfelt sighs 

They tell how he kissed them with rosebud lips, 

Or stroked their heads with his finger-tips ; 

The orchard blossoms bend low as then. 

And look for the glint of his frock again 

As once they did when he romped there, and 

The whole of his world was the Orchard Land ; 

The blossoms sorrow — the orchard sighs 

"O where is the child with the far-away eyes?" 

But never a glimpse of the happy face 
Nor answer comes from the lonely place, • 

121 



122 No 'Welcome 

And Spring goes mournfully down the lane 

In sadness, weeping her Maytime rain, 

In quest of better and happier trends 

And newer faces and other friends ; 

Away from the silence, so cold and drear, 

Away from all of the sorrow here, 

Since God came down from the smiling skies 

And asked for the child with the far-away eyes. 



THE WAY THE HIRED-MAN DIED. 

THE day was bright, and in the golden glint 
Of autumn sun that crept across the room 
And fell away, there was no thought or hint 
Of pending death; nor anything of gloom 
Around the house, save in the maples tall, 
A mournful sound, like sighing — that was all. 

The sheepdog curled up on the kitchen sill 
And paid no heed to travelers who went 

Along the road; the evening herd stood still 
Around the bars in dumblike wonderment. 

And mused, perhaps, in that half -human way 
That creatures have, upon so strange a day. 

The sufferer lay upon the spare-room bed, 

His face deep bronzed against the spotless white, 

And mother sat and cooled the fevered head. 
Or eased his fears against the Endless Night — 

And once she bowed and whispered soft, "My boy!" 
He heard — and smiled — with nigh a holy joy. 

And once — once only — came a spoken word, 
*T was when the clock upon the mantle shelf 

Struck even 'time; the patient sufferer heard 
The solemn knell and slowly raised himself 

Upon his bed, and said, with vacant stare: 

"Thesuppergbell! Tell mother 1 11— be— there " 

123 



124 THe W'ay tKe Hired-Man Died 

Then evening came, a gentle shadow fell 

Across the sill — from out the twilight dim 
A voice spoke out and broke the silent spell — 

A spirit voice that softly summoned him ; 
"It 's growing dark — they 're singing there!" he 
cried, 
"The harvest's done — I 'm — going — now" — and 
died! 



HE USED TO BE A JOURNALIST HIMSELF. 

THERE 'S a Pythian sort of friendship that exists 
between the men 
Who earn their bread by writing for the press ; 
'T is a hyper-magic feeling that defies the common 
pen — 
Akin to Ancient Masonry, I guess! 
In the greenroom of the Temple of the Brotherhood 
Who Write- 
in paths that lead to lasting fame and pelf — 
You may often hear the password as it rings upon the 
night : 
"I used to be a journalist myself!" 

'T is a key that opens prisons, and the dungeons of the 
soul, 
Those simple words that make the two akin, 
And the writer greets the stranger and he leads him 
to the goal 
Where fellowship abounds and bids him in ; 
Then across the shining table they recount the tales 
that stir — 
Unsparingly the host deals out his pelf. 
For he knows the guest is thirsty when those golden 
words recur: 
*'I used to be a journalist myself!" 
125 



126 He Used to be a Journalist Himself 

Ah, the test of Hfe is friendship! I have found it ever 
so; 
I Ve heard the mystic password in the strife — 
I have taken in the stranger and I 've seen the 
stranger go — 
The very saddest moments of my Hfe ! 
And my sorrow only freshens, if indeed my sorrow 
can, 
As, misty-eyed, I see upon the shelf 
All the "I. O. U.'s" they left me — each the relic of a 
man 
Who "used to be a journalist himself!" 



OLD SWAN STREET. 

WHEN high over all, in the belfry, the chimes 
sing the end of a day, 
And roar and rumble of traffic sound farther and 

farther away, 
Then night draws her mantle of romance and high in 

the shop and the Square, 
Like eyes of old lovers, forgotten, the lights twinkle 

over them there ; 
It 's then I see shadow meet shadow and phantoms 

hold sway in the street, 
I hear the sweet songs of the lovers and tread of the 

daintiest feet, 
And down through the years they come courting, as 

only those old lovers could. 
The belles and the beaux of the city when life and its 

living were good. 

The belles and the beaux of the Sixties! They come 

through the old-fashioned street, 
A shadowy, phantom procession with laughter so 

silently sweet — 
Young knights in toppers and strolling with courtly 

and dignified stride. 
Who bend with loving attention to old-fashioned 

maids by their side ; 

127 



128 Old Swan Street 

Then softly, as if by some magic, the shades of a 
summer's night steal, 

And, hark, comes the music of dancing, the old- 
fashioned schottish and reel^ — 

Ah, dance, you sweet phantoms and shadows that 
vie with the starlight above, 

As once you did here in your mansions — aye, danced 
on the heart of your love ! 



But hold, drowning music and laughter, there comes 

the shrill scream of the fife, 
And calls from the brass-throated trumpet that sum- 
mon your lovers to strife ! 
I see in my fancy the phalanx move out to the drum 's 

hollow beat, 
And pass, with a rising and falling, like waves, out 

the old-fashioned street. 
A word and a tear at the parting, a prayer that the 

Master might save, 
And grief that was buried the deeper lest sight of it 

weaken the brave! 
Ah, belles of the war-clouded Sixties, when life and 

its living were new. 
Did you rear daughters whose children have hearts 

that are loyal as you? 



The Night draws her mantle of romance and high 

in the shop and the Square, 
Like eyes of old lovers, forgotten, the lights twinkle 

over them there ! 



Old S-wan Street 129 

I see the bronzed soldiers returning and loves are 

united again 
To live a new peace and a battle — be fathers and 

mothers of men ; 
Then ends my musing and dreaming — the shadows 

cease flitting about — 
The knights, so gracious and courtly, are bowing 

their mistresses out — 
Then, lo, the long arms of the dawning, reach out 

from the East to the West, 
And chimes of the rose-tinted morning ring belles 

and beaux to their rest. 



THE STOREKEEPER SAYS: 

RED WHISKERED DOWNS, who lived here 
for a spell, 
Was an odd sort o' feller as human folks run — 
Chewed so much finecut that folks could n 't tell 

Where his whiskers left off an ' terbacker begun ! 
Used t' come in when he lived around here 

An' hark to the boys gas of science an' law — 
Never said nuthin' — jist tipped back his cheer, 
An' half closed his eyes an' done nothin' but chaw. 

Boys done a lot of palaverin' that Fall; 

They settled what Congress had orter o' done — 
Found that the tariff wa'n't equal at all — 

An' even went back onto Sixteen to One! 
Argued on creeds an' on bosses an' pay, 

An' politics, science an' butter an' law! — 
Red Whiskered Downs had n't nuthin' to say — 

Jist half closed his eyes an' done nuthin' but chaw ! 

Squeers got t' banterin' an' pickin' on Downs, 
Remarkin' he had n't said nary a word 

All winter long on the "pros" an' the "cons," 
At least if he had Mister Squeers had n't heard; 
130 



THe StoreKeeper Says: 131 

Downs sort o' shuffled an' allowed Squeers was right, 
An' shifted his cud, an* he says, with a nod: 

" I *m from Vermont where it was n't perlite 

T' make so much noise when y' chew" — an' he 
chawed ! 



A PLEA IN THE NIGHT. 

AT night when the shadows creep over the wall 
And the stars through the windows are peeking, 
And Fancy so noisily stalks through the hall 

With O, such a terrible squeaking! 
From the little white bed peers a little shorn head, 
And parents alone understand 
The wee little plea. 
Such a wee little plea : 
"Father — dear father — take hold of my hand!" 

A God-given privilege to gather them close 

And quiet their child trepidations ; 
The faith and the trust of the little ones — those 

The greatest of Life's compensations; 
When father is near them to banish their fear 
They return to their Babyhood Land! 
Lisping their plea, 
Such a wee little plea : 
"Father — dear father — take hold of my hand!" 

Then back to my pillow to watch and to rest, 
To thinking and dreaming, though waking, 

How men of today are but children at best 
And children but men in the making ; 
132 



A Plea in tKe Nig'Kt 133 

Some far distant night we shall grope for the light 
On the way to a Wondrous Land, 

And, trustingly, we 

Shall utter their plea : 
"Father — dear Father — take hold of my hand!" 



IN THE PLAY CORNER. 

I SELDOM think about it in the daytime, but at 
night, 

With all the children sleeping and the dancing fire- 
light 

Describing friendly shadows on the walls and all 
about, 

I 'm apt to fall to musing and my feelings find me out ; 

My eyes rove here to yonder, from old trophies, 
pictures, books, 

To favored chairs and corners and to old familiar 
nooks. 

And then, by inclination seem to seek the comer far — 

He always says "his comer" — where his tattered 
playthings are. 

O, what a store of treasures to enrich a poet's pen! 
O, what a wealth of loving for a world of lonely men ! 
What joy for those whose vision is a child of Long 

Ago, 
And O, what thoughts for others who have had no 

child to know? 

His woolly dog, his pensioned horse, his sheep no 

longer bleats, 
His Christmas drum, long since succumbed to his too 

ardent beats, 

134 



In tHe Play Corner 135 

The wheelless cart and paintless blocks, and story- 
book and ball, 

And, best of all, his presence and his thumbprints over 
all! 

I seldom think about it in the daytime, but at night 
My pleasure is in musing in the mellow firelight, 
Until one vagrant shadow of the others 'roundabout 
Falls strangely 'cross the doorway and it seems to 

lengthen out 
To quite the height of manhood! Ah, it speaks a time 

to come 
When childish glee and laughter shall be stilled within 

the home — 
When Time shall take his playthings from the corner 

place he knew, 
And I shall be so lonely, and — well, he '11 be lonely too ! 



A WONDER JOURNEY. 

THERE 'S a Wonderful Train on a Wonderful 
Line that runs to a Wonderful Town, 
And it gets under way with its clatter and noise after 

the sun settles down ; 
Its journey lies far o *er the valleys and hills and along 

by the tinkelty streams, 
And comes to an end in the quietest way in the 
Wonderful Station of Dreams. 

It has a conductor, a curly-head boy, and he is the 

engineman, too, 
And he is the stoker, and trainman and all who pilot 

the Wonder Train through; 
He 's baggage man, agent and news butcher too, and 

sleeping-car porter as well. 
And airbrake and sandbox and everything else — and 

he 's his own whistle and bell I 

The train is made up of the dining-room chairs with 

a library chair up ahead — 
So staunch and secure a train I am sure not even the 

timid would dread; 
Its time-table varies yet oddly enough its schedule 

does n 't annoy 
Its passenger list which always consists of One Little 

Curly-Head Boy! 

136 




When the wonderful train on the Wonderful Line has left 
for the Wonderful Town. 



A. Wonder Jovirney 137 

It gets under way with much clatter and noise, but 

the track is so smooth and so clear 
That scarcely the engine puffs out of your sight ere 

never a sound can you hear; 
And O, but how silent the house seems to get! and O, 

how our spirits go down 
When the Wonderful Train on the Wonderful Line 

has left for the Wonderful Town ! 



CHRONICLES OF THE YOUNGEST. 

ONCE my father could n't find 
His ol' tackle box behind 
Our tool chest, ner in the case 
Where he kep' it — anyplace I 

He ist look an' look an' look, 
Into ever' corner, nook, 
Spot an' cranny, everywhere — 
All he say was ist "I swear!" 

When he pulled most all our stuff 
Out o' place an' pujff an' pufE 
Ist like engines, nen my pa 
Ist set down an' hollers "ikfa/" 

Nen my ma she hunted too, 
An' she say she wish she knew 
'Nuff to let his things stay hid, 
An' pa says "he wish she 'did'!*' 

Bimeby my ma found that 
Box ist where he put it at, 
An' my pa say, "Well, I swear! 
That 's no place fer tackle — there!** 

Nen my pa an' ma don't speak 
Nice no more for most a week, 
'Til my pa forgive her, nen 
Both of 'em get good again, 
138 



"OUT TO OLD AUNT MARY'S." 
(James Whitcomb Riley's Birthday) 

OUT to Old Aunt Mary's!" I 've been dreamin' 
that today 
I 've been reminiscin' on the folks that 's gone away 
Scattered-like, an' toiled an' slaved, an' now their 

toilin' 's through, 
Long to be back there today to celebrate with you. 

"Out to Old Aunt Mary's" — why, it all comes back 
as clear, 

P'cisely as you tell it in your homely verses here — 

Old woodspath of dimpled dust, an' with the rain- 
drops jest 

Patterin' like teardrops for the boy that loved it 
best! 

Yes — an' roads an' meadows with the sunshine over- 
spread 

"Thick as country butter on old-fashioned country 
bread" 

Like you told us in your rhyme — a rhyme that like 
as not 

Spread its gladness farther than the sunshine ever 
got! 

139 



140 ''Out to Old Aunt Mary's" 

Peekin' through the gethered haze of memory I see 
Old Aunt Mary waitin ' there Hke what she used to be, 
Waitin ' there to greet you with the very things we 'd 

say 
All us boys — Aunt Mary's boys! — the years have 

coaxed away. 

"Out to old Aunt Mary's!" Why, your simple 

melodies 
Live in love an' flowers an' theboomin' of the bees! — 
Everything around there hums the hullsome praises 

sung 
By a boy perpetual, from a heart forever young! 



WES' HIGGINS' ANALOGY. 

HUMAN folks an' dawgs," sez Wes', 
"Pears t' me that them two 's jes' 
Near related — " Wesley wheezes, 
' ' As two common garden peas is ! " 

"Take my hound-da wg, Drive, now he 's 
Fine example, if y' please — 
Blueblood through an' through, an' jes' 
Uppish as them bluebloods is! 

"Pass ol' Barton's dawg, or Tag 
Thurber's hound without a wag, 
Twitch or nothin\ no sir-e-e-e — 
Jes ' as human as could be ! 

"Got so bimeby that I 'd 
Hunt with him, an' drat my hide, 
Bow, an' tell him ' Sakes alive. 
Much obleeged fer goin', Drive!' 

"T' other night though, he come in 
Dreenched to his etarnal skin. 
All stuck up with clay an' — shoo ! — 
Cockleburrs an' stick- tights too ! — • 
141 



142 "Wes* Hi^gins' Analogy 

"Tail betwixt his legs — the same 
Voicin' his etamal shame! — ■ 
Ears lopped down, an' all the sand 
He persessed was missin ' — and 

"Floppered on the floor — kerplunk !- 
'Sociatin' with a skunk! 



Layin' side all sorts o' jokes, 
Wa'n't that jes' like human folks?" 



A HOUND-DAWG. 

WE had a hound- dawg once, a yeller cuss, 
Without no tail — a ornery little scamp — 
That come from nowheres — famblied here with us 
Per quite a spell, an' we all called him "Tramp,' 
A name, says- 1, so dumed appropriate 
An' fit, the two jist seemed t' sort o' mate! 

His occupation, far as I could see. 
Was "Yappin" round at everybody's heels. 

Or snappin' at the hired man or me, 

Or wimin folks, or ketchin' at the wheels 

Of vehicles 't was passin' every day. 

An' f oiler 'em, an' "yappin" all the way! 

An' sometimes, when he 'd clear plum out o' sight 
An' stay a day or more in yender hills 

All soul alone, he 'd limp back home at night 
All battered up, an' mouth all full o' quills 

Of porcupines; 't was 'cause he 'd stuck his nose 

In other folkses' business, I suppose. 

Reflectin'-like, it 's given me to see 

That dawg was heaps like lots o' folks I know. 
Who bark away an' snap etamally. 

An' "yap" at folks most everywhere they go, 
An' stick their nose in other folks' affairs. 
An' git it full o' quills — an* no one cares! 

143 



THE MASQUERADER. 

WHAT is Age? I 've asked myself 
A thousand times or more, I guess- 
Asked an' asked an' asked, untwell 'f 

It was n't downright answerless 
The things that I have asked it of, 
The fields an' trees an' skies above, 
The clouds that flit an' winds that blow. 
Would answered to me long ago ! 

Is it wrinkles? I have said, 

Or when the silver hairs appear, 

A-thatchin' up a feller's head 

To match the Autumn of the year? — 

Or v/hen some dadburned fiddle sails 

In "Old Gray Eagle" dance, an' fails 

To put the devil in your toe. 

Like what it used to years ago? 

Ain't it when your eyes appear 

To water-like, an' you agree 
Summertime ain't nowheres near 

As purty as it used to be? — 
When bobolinks an' bluebirds is 
The worst of noisy nuisances, 

Instead of "sweetest birds that sings" 
When you was more in tune with things? 
144 



TKe Masqvierader 145 

What is Age? An' here I 've been 

A-askin' that year in an' out, 
An' I suppose, like other men 

I 've never thought to look about, 
'Cause if I 'd only looked around 
A little nearer home, I 'd found 
The answer written, real an' true 
Across the young old face of you I 

Lookin' at you, I perceive 

That Age is nothin' but a mask 
Calculated to deceive 

Inquirin' folks like me, who ask — 
A sort of veil of bronze an' gray 
That trys to hide your boyish way, 
Perventin' people, seems to me, 
From knowin' jist how old you be ! 

Shaggy brows that hide the glint 
Of boyish eyes an' heart to match — 

Whiskers, hidin' smiles that hint 
Of swimmin' holes an ' berry patch ! 

I would n't trust you, no sir-e-e, 

Beyond the closest boundary, 

For Age is nothin', I 'm afraid. 

But Boyhood on a masquerade! 



THE CRICKET. 

COME an' gone a hundered nights he 's paid the 
hearth a visit, 
An' said his say an' shut his mouth as human as 
could be — 
Mother an' the hired hand a-wonderin' "What is it? " 
An' him a-f airly hollerin': "I 'd have you know 
it 'sme!" 

Seemed t' me he alius thought he had a speciad 
mission 
To right en things an' straighten out the hull en- 
durin' earth — 
Hopped from out his hidin' place an' sort o' took 
position, 
As sayin' is, then scolded from his rostrum on the 
hearth. 

Raised his voice, oddrot him, in a sort o' obligatter, 

An' findin' fault, I reckin, was the burden of his 

song; 

Seemed as if he hollered: " Don't you wonder what 's 

the matter 

With everything around ye, an' why everything is 



wrong?' 



146 



TKe CricKet 147 

Mebbe for an hour he would spout an' blow an' 
bluster 
Ferever like reformers, 'til y' could n't doze a 
wink — 
Hired man got restlesslike an' ma allowed it fussed 
her, 
An' actually a body could n't hear a body think. 

Yet the earth kept movin' an' the pendulum a- 
s way in' — 
In spite of all his scoldin' everything remained the 
same, 
'Til he got discouraged an' skedaddled off, a-sayin' 
"I 've warned y' now; remember that I ain't the 
one to blame." 

When I get to musin' an' the Autumn evenin' finds 
me 
Philosophizin' mebbe, on the subjects close at 
han', 
I can scarcely tell y' how the cricket here reminds me 
Of other brands of insects better known perhaps 
as man ! 



RANDOM THOUGHTS ON OCTOBER. 

LAZY, daisy, hazy days — days of old October, 
When the Fall is loafin ' 'round solemn-like and 

sober, 
Tired out with harvestin* an' fat with high-toned 

livin', 
Like a mortal alius is along before Thanksgivin' ; 
Coat an' vest of red an' gold, britches made of yeller, 
Lordy , Old October is imposin' sort o' feller. 
Pussy as the sheriff is or the tax collector ! 
Waitin' for Miss Wintertime? When do you expect 

her? 

Ringin', singin', tingin' nights, when the fiddle 's 

playin*. 
Barn is fairly weavin' with the boys an' girls a- 

swayin ' ; 
Summer 's dead an' burrit, too, an' here is all the 

mourners, 
"Balancin"' an' "hoein' down" an' "swingin' on 

the corners"; 
Older folks is lookin' on from fodder loft or stanchions, 
Pityin' the city folks that have to dance in mansions! 
Hullsome cheer an' homely fun with silver stars above 

it, 
Dancin' on the barn floor — Lordy, don't y' love it! 

148 



THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 

I AIN'T, in no point of mind — 
"Pa, where' bouts is Parag^way?" 
Prejudist 'ginst womankind — 

" What 's its greatest export, say?'^ 
Only this: all said an' done, 
Votin' ain't no woman's fun — 
That *s a growed man's job, or none! — 
"Pa, whereabouts is Baffin's Bay?*' 

Man, in all his wisdom, ort — 

' * Pa-say -Pa — what 's longitude ? ' ' 
Handle problems of that sort ! 

" What 's Alaska's staple food?" 
Women jist can't never be 
'Round the polls for — lawsey me, 
Woman, where 's your modesty? 
**Pa, what is Potential Mood?" 

Leave sich things for men to do — 
"Pa, whereabouts is Aberdeen?" 

Men that 's learned through an' through- 
" Which way does the axis lean?" 

Men that 's got the knack to see 

Things adzackly as they be ! 

Men that 's wise an' — well, like me! 
"Pa, what 's ^erudition' mean?" 
149 



THE SIMPLE SONG. 

FOR the song's sake, let it go! 
Homely? Yes, but even so, 
Does it not, though crude and halt. 
Burdened too, by many a fault, 
Rhyme the things God meant to bless 
With a tender homeliness? 

For the song 's sake, let it go, 

Shrill like Autumn winds, or low 

As May time's song, and blowing sweet 

Apple blossoms at our feet, 

Like a zephyr lost its way 

From the Orchard Land of May. 

For the song 's sake, let it go, 
Whether it will chime or no; 
What, so long as it rings true. 
Matters that to me — or you — 
Since it strikes such chords as these, 
Old-time dreams and memories. 

For the song's sake, let it go, 
Lilting, if you wish, or slow — 
Fit the lines to tears and smiles. 
Days gone by or Afterwhiles — 
Strive for honest rhymes that fit 
Life and all that 's best of it. 
150 



TKe Simple Son^ 151 

Shall we seek the rhymes' alloy? 
Shall a child dissect its toy? 
Shall we cut and scan and pare 
'Til we spoil the beauty there 
In the simple measure? No 
For the song's sake, let it go! 



A MAN'S WAY. 

FELLER settin' next t' me 
In the restaurant says he : 
"Where you from?" An* I-says-I 
"Pennsylvany;" he says, "Why, 
/ 'm from Pennsylvany too! " 
"Like enuff I 'm kin t' you!" 
I-says-I, an' he-says-he: 
* ' Like enuff you are — less see — 
Where is your home town?" he says: 
"Northern part," says I; ''Great days!'' 
He-says-he, "then you must know 
Tubbses folks from Jericho, 
Crawford County?" I says "Well, 
'Course I know em! I 've heerd tell 
Lots o' times o' that 'ere name — 
Prob'ly fambly's just the same"; 
"Well, great days, they 're kin o' mine," 
He-says-he "on father's line ; 
My Aunt Serepty," he- says-he 
" She 's been married twice — ^less see 
Yes, three times I reckon; drink 
Killed the first one off, I think ; 
Next one, name of 'Lisha Hills, 
He tuk sick an' died of chills; 
Now she 's marrit widower 
Name o' Smith an' older *n her 
152 



A Man's "Way 153 

Lots, an' his first wife, y' know, 
Was a Tubbs from Jericho ; 
That 's the way,' ' he says, says he 
" We *re connected up, y' see!' ' 
"Glad," says-he, "that I came in — 
Glad fer chance t' meet my kin!" 
An' there we set an' set an' set, 
Talked an' joked an' smoked an' et, 
Happy, as those folks '11 know 
Who have ever had t' go 
In strange towns an' set around 
Lonesome as a borrowed hound ! 



THE EGOTIST. 

LIDY, she was jist that sot 
On Ephram, that — well, I dunno, 
She 'd have more than likely got 
Him on the fly, as like as not, 

You know how a story '11 go 
When it 's started, I declare, 
It gathers some thin' everywhere. 

Anyhow, folks here aver 

That Lidy 'd set her cap for Eph 
Spite of her old dad's "No sir!" 
Mother was more tractabler, 

An' hinted that she 'd just as lief; 
That 's the way the stories go — 
That, of course, don't make 'em so. 

Well, they caterwauled some more 

'Til finally Eph disappeared ; 
Lidy moped an' cried, an' 'fore 
Long got work at Tubbses' store 

In Morgantown, an' no one heerd 
Where Eph went, an' then, y' see 
Things died down jist natcherlly. 

Well, along last May — or June — 
Her father went t' mill with Red 
154 



TKe E^s'otist 155 

Hubbard's grist; come home at noon 
Whistlin ' a different tune ; 

He 'd had a word from Lide, he said: 
' ' Goin ' t ' marry some young gent 
Fast becomin ' prominent ! ' ' 

Well, you know her father's way — 

So tickled that he liked t ' died ! 
Told it everywhere, folks say — 
Drove t ' Hatcher 's Mill one day 

T' tell his cousin's folks of Lide; 
Meanwhile Lidy 's mother, she 
Smiled jist sort of knowin 'ly. 

When they come — well, how he fret, 

A-struttin there, a reg 'lar chief 
Bottlewasher! — How he sweat! 
Train come in an ' the brakes was set 

An ' the first ones off was Lide — an * Eph ! 
All dressed up an ' smilin 'too, 
Meanin' "What you goin' t' do?" 

Him? Pervoked? Well, don't ask me! 

But there was all the nayborhood 
Lookin' on, how could he be? 
"Your mother's jedgment," he-says-he 

"On marryin' was alius good!" 

I don't s'pose that he knows yit 
Why we laffed so, fit t' split! 



A MAN OF NOTE. 

HE lived a life spectacular, 
And got what folks called fame — 
He found lost arts and gave to each 

A scientific name ; 
He died, and in a niche was placed 

And greatly praised was he, 
And lauded as a man who built 
For Earth's posterity. 

But subsequent — a thousand years — 

One day there passed that way, 
A plodding, plugging college Prof. 

Who poked that bed of clay. 
Uncovering some gray old bones. 

And looking through his glass 
The Prof, exclaimed, "Rare find, indeed 1 

A prehistoric ass!" 



156 



THE DEATH OF THE NE'ER-DO-WELL. 

J 1ST ''Tug" was the name he went by — a sort of a 
fittin' name 
That has a sinister bearin' on fellers that wear the 

same — 
A-meanin' sin an' mischief an' wickedness dark an 

grim, 
An' everything else that's reckless — an' that was 
p'cisely him. 

His troubles was mostly whiskey — he alius was out 

' step, 
An' when he was in his tantrums the village scarcely 

slep'! 
Yet here was the only feller of all of the folks at home 
Who 'd set with the marshal's childurn when black 

dipthery come! 

Got drunk one night in August — an' he knocked the 

marshal down — 
An' stole a hoss — broke winders! — an' purt' nigh 

wrecked the town ! 
A posse went out t' get him an' found him a-ravin' 

wild, 
Yet he come like a lamb t' feedin at the call of a 

little child! 

157 



158 The Death of the Ne*er-Do-Well 

Struck Trostle down one evenin' after they 'd passed 

the word, 
An' Trostle never whimpered as any one present 

heard! 
The ol' Grand Jury sessioned an' agreed on a "self 

defense" 
An' Tug supported the fambly — with interest — ever 

sence ! 

An' he was the wayward feller that all o' the naybor- 

hood 
Took only the bad for granted an' never would see 

the good — 
An' plum fergot his kindness — 'til they saw him 

yesterday, 
His face turned up to Heaven an' his hands crossed 

thataway ! 

An' yesterday was stormy with nary a sun to shine — 
The skies was grey — unfriendly — an' the wind jist 

seemed to whine, 
Or more p'cisely whimper^ an' it struck me sort o' odd, 
Like Tug was hangin' back from a-takin' his soul t' 

God! 

But today it 's bright an' peaceful, with blue skies 

overhead, 
The pathways bathed in sunshine, the paths he loved 

t' tread — 
There 's something sort o' holy, a sort o' feel in the 

air 
That God has acquitted Tug in the High Court over 

There! 



A SOLDIER'S GRAVE. 

THEY laid him away in the orchard; that 's all 
that we '11 ever know, 
That 's all that his comrades told us an' I 'm kind 

o' glad it 's so — 
I 'm glad that we don't remember the battle an' 
wound an' pain, 
But only the grave in the orchard grass 
That waves in the blossom rain. 

"We laid him away in the orchard" was all that his 
comrades said: 

Nor give us that lief to sorrow or mourn for our soldier 
dead, 

But only the pain of partin', the thoughts of his far- 
off mound, 
An' him with his hands crossed — thataway — 

An' the Old Flag wrapped around. 

They laid him away in the orchard; that 's mebbe 

the reason why 
I like to set in the gloamin' in the orchard here an' 

try 
To picture him a-sleepin' in the orchard there, the 
sound 
Of drums an' bugles an' war fergot, 
An' the pink bloom all around. 

159 



DEC \1 ^''IS 

i6o A Soldier's Grave 

That 's why, when it 's Decoration an' the vets tromp 

up an' down, 
I ruther stay with my feelin 's an' never go off to 

town — 
To dream of the place he 's sleepin', the grave 'neath 

the flowered limb. 
Where every day that the blossoms fall, 
It 's Memorial Day for him ! 



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